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ON THE GREAT
• HIGHWAY •

^ — ^je**'

ON THE GREAT
• HIGHWAY •

THE WANDERINGS AND AD-
VENTURES OF A SPECIAL
CORRESPONDENT * * *

BY JAMES CREELMAN

LOTHROP PUBLISHING COMPANY
BOSTON

1901,

BY LOTHROP

PUBLISHING

COMPANY.

ALL RIGHTS

RESERVED

ENTERED AT

STATIONERS'

. HALL •

PUBLISHED IN OCTOBER

PREFACE

THESE pages from the experiences of
a busy man are intended to give the
public some idea of the processes of
modern journalism which are gradually assimi-
lating the human race. The newspaper reader,
who sits comfortably at home and surveys the
events of the whole world day by day, seldom
realizes the costly enterprise and fierce effort
employed in the work of bringing the news
of all countries to his fireside; nor does he
fully appreciate the part which the press is
rapidly assuming in human affairs, not only
as historian and commentator, but as a direct
and active agent.

The author has attempted to give the origi-
nal color and atmosphere of some of the great
events of his own time, and leaves the duty
of moralizing to his indulgent patrons. The
human nature of men and women everywhere

* PREFACE *

is strikingly alike, — at least the author has
found it so, — and if that fact has been demon-
strated in this book, its purpose has been
served.

The frequent introduction of the author's
personality is a necessary means of remind-
ing the reader that he is receiving the testi-
mony of an eyewitness.

CONTENTS

Chapter Page

I. The White Shepherd of Rome . n

II. The Storming of Ping Yang . . 32
///. Interview with the King of Corea . 5 5
IF". A Ride with the Japanese Invaders

in Manchuria .... 74

V. Battle and Massacre of Port A rthur 94

VI. The Avatar of Count Tolstoy ' ... 120

VII. Tolstoy and his P eople . . .141

VIII. "The Butcher" . . . .157

IX. Familiar Glimpses of Yellow Jour-

nalism 174

X. Battle of El Caney . . .194
XL Heroes of Peace and War . .217
XII. A Talk with Kossuth . . .242
XI IL The Czar on his Knees . . .256
XIV. Greeks on the Verge of War . . 268

CONTENTS

Chapter Page

XV. Sitting Bull . . . .294

XVI. On the Firing Line in the Philip-

pines . . . .313

XVII. A Race with a Woman for the

Cable ..... 336

XVIII. In the Black Republic . .357

XIX. Newsgathering in the Clouds . 381

XX. McKinley, the Forgiving . . 403

ILL usr RATIONS

James Creelman . . . Frontispiece

Facing Page

Leo XIII 14

The King of Core a . . . . .58

Count Tolstoy . . . . . 1 24

The Charge at El Caney . . . .198

Louis Kossuth . . . . . . 246

King George of Greece . . . .272

Sitting Bull 298

William McKinley 406

ON THE GREAT •

HIGHWAY

CHAPTER I

The White Shepherd of Rome

IT was all very well to sit at an editorial
desk in Paris and plan an interview with
the Pope. But I had not been a week
in Rome before I began to understand the
seeming hopelessness of carrying profane
American journalism into the presence of the
white Vicar of Christ, sitting at the heart of
the mysterious Vatican.

There was an enchanting sense of adven-
ture in the thing. Yet a thousand years of
unbroken tradition stood between me and the
august head of the Christian world, whose
predecessors had turned sceptres to dust and
blotted out kingdoms.

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The pavements and walls of the venerable
city seemed to mock me. The stately cardi-
nals listened and shook their heads. There
was no precedent. The bare thought of a
newspaper correspondent interviewing the Pope
violated every sentiment of Papal history, from
St. Peter to Leo XIII. The Apostolic Secre-
tary of State, Cardinal Rampolla, advised me
to abandon the idea. The Vicar General of
Rome, Cardinal Parocchi, smiled at my
enthusiasm and urged me not to waste any
time on an impossible mission. Still I went
from one prince of the Church to another,
from palace to palace, from cathedral to
cathedral.

The persistent spirit developed in an Ameri-
can newspaper office is not easily daunted.
As the difficulties gathered, my ambition to
interview the Pope grew more intense. It
became an absorbing passion. It was with
me when I wandered in the crumbling palaces
of the Caesars or walked among the ruins of
the Roman forum. It haunted me among the
tombs of the popes in St. Peter's. I dreamed
of it at night.

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

And when every Cardinal and Bishop' in
Rome seemed to stand in the way, I went to
Turin and entreated Cardinal Allimonde, King
Humbert's friend, to help me. Alas ! no ; the
Cardinal assured me that my quest was bound
to end in failure. There were some things that
American journalism could not accomplish.

Then to see Cardinal San Felice, the ven-
erable "Saint of Naples." The gentle old
man listened to the story of my efforts to
see the Pope and shook his snowy head dis-
couragingly.

" I cannot help you, my son," he said. " I
know that it would be a great thing for a
newspaper writer to be the first to interview
the Holy Father. But I am too old to go
to Rome to assist you, and a letter would ac-
complish little. The throne of St. Peter is
guarded in a thousand ways against the shock
of change, and what you propose would upset
the traditions of ages. Still, Leo XIII. is a
broad-minded, far-seeing statesman, and if he
thought that a newspaper interview would
serve the cause of Christianity he would not
hesitate to make a new precedent."

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At this time kind fortune brought into my
anxious life in Rome the friendship of an
American sculptor, Chevalier Ezekiel, who
lived and worked in a studio in the vine-grown
ruins of the Baths of Diocletian. And to this
friend I confided the tale of my attempts to
penetrate the innermost door of the Vatican.
As he sat there in his white sculptor's blouse
and slanting velvet cap, beside a marble figure
of the dead Christ, his face suddenly became
radiant.

" I have it ! " he said, throwing his cap on
the table. " Cardinal Hohenlohe will help
you."

So straight to the Basilica of Santa Maria
Maggiore we went, and found the Cardinal in
his palace, a stout, rosy, witty, German prince,
once the bosom friend of Pius IX. Within
an hour the Cardinal promised to lay the
matter before the Pope. Three days later he
sent for me and announced that His Holiness
had consented to be interviewed.

"When?" I asked.

"Ah!" said the Cardinal, "no one can tell
that. Perhaps after a week; perhaps after

Leo XIII.

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six months. The Vatican moves slowly. It
has the affairs of the whole world, civilized
and uncivilized, to consider. You must wait.
Rome will teach you how to be patient."

I left the palace drunken with joy. How
my old comrades in New York would stare
when they learned that I had reached the
unreachable ! How my newspaper would
herald the feat to the ends of the earth ! I
could hardly keep my feet from dancing on
the hot pavement. Rome, Rome, how I loved
you that day !

The next day a message from Paris sent me
to Brindisi to meet Henry M. Stanley, the
explorer, who was on his way back from
Africa, after rescuing Emin Pasha from the
perils of the Equatorial Province. I was in
the service of the newspaper that first sent
Stanley into the "dark continent," and he
gave me the materials for an exclusive de-
spatch that, in other days, would have made
me dizzy with pride. But as I walked along
the stone quay of Brindisi with the weather-
beaten man whose deeds had once inspired
me with visions of the possibilities of my pro-

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

fession, and heard him talk of the riches of
Africa, my mind turned always to Rome.
There was a terrible fear upon me. What if
the Pope should send for me while I was away ?
The thought filled me with agony.

Stanley had picked me out of a score of
newspaper correspondents, who stood enviously
watching us as we strolled along the shore of
the sparkling Adriatic Sea. And yet I wished
myself in another place.

Two days later I was in Rome again, and
early the next morning a Papal chamberlain
came to the hotel with a summons to the
presence of the Pope. The invitation included
Monsignor Frederick Z. Rooker, the scholarly
Vice Rector of the American college, who
was to act as interpreter.

The governments of Europe had practically
confessed in conference at Berlin that they
could do nothing to check the onward sweep
of the tide of social discontent that threatened
the peace of nations. The German Emperor's
international council on the desperate question
of capital and labor was an admitted failure.
What would Leo XIII. say? Would he, too,

OAT THE GREAT HIGH WAT

admit that accumulated and concentrated
wealth had brought into the world problems
unsolvable except by brute force ?

No man can make that journey from the
famous bronze portal of the Vatican into the
presence of the imprisoned monarch, whom two
hundred million human beings hail as the vice
regent of Heaven and earth, without being
thrilled from head to foot. I care not whether
he be Protestant, Catholic, Jew, or pagan;
whether he adores the Pope as the infallible
Vicar of Christ, or regards him simply as the
supreme teacher in a universal school — he will
be profoundly moved by the solemnity and sug-
gestiveness of that place.

To reach this sovereign of a ghostly empire
we passed through the palace door that looks
out upon the wide space in front of St. Peter's
— once lighted by the burning bodies of
Christian martyrs. Here stood a squad of
the stalwart Swiss Guard, in brilliant costumes
of red, yellow, and black, designed by Michael
Angelb more than three hundred years ago.
Ascending the royal stairway of marble that
leads to the immortal Sistine Chapel, and turn-

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

ing to the right, up a flight of ancient steps,
we were saluted by the Gendarmes of St. Peter
at the entrance of the open courtyard of St.
Damasus, which is half surrounded by cor-
ridors and halls glorified by the genius of
Raphael, the tender colors glowing here and
there through open windows.

This spot once echoed the steel-shod feet of
Charlemagne. Here Napoleon stood among
fawning cowards.

In one corner of the sunny courtyard was a
cardinal's carriage and long-tailed horses ; a tall,
thin Monsignor in purple silk rustled by, and
a white pigeon wheeled in alarm through the
air as the great chimes began to strike the hour.
A picturesque sentry, leaning on an antique
halberd, guarded the door of a great marble
stairway leading from the opposite side of the
court. Passing through the door and mount-
ing the stairs, we came to the vast hall of St.
Clement. Here figures of Justice, Mercy, and
Faith looked down upon a jolly company of
the Pope's soldiers sprawled comfortably on a
wooden bench in a corner, their glittering hal-
berds leaning against the brilliant wall. There

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

was a ringing command uttered by some invisi-
ble officer, and the next instant the row of red,
black, and yellow guards was saluting a stately,
scarlet cardinal who passed without raising his
eyes.

Imagine the feelings of a young American
writer moving through that palace of eleven
thousand rooms to interview a king without
territory — trying to preserve his heathen news
instincts in such surroundings!

A burly, white-haired servitor in crimson silk
and knee-breeches met us at the outer door of
the Pope's apartments, and to him I delivered
the document which called me to the Vatican.
Through one splendid chamber after another
he led us, among historic tapestries and princely
trappings of bygone pontiffs, until we reached
the throne room.

Here we sat until Leo XIII. was ready to
receive us in the next room. The great golden
throne under the royal canopy was the gift of
the workingmen of Rome to the Pope. Above
it shone a triple crown, surmounting the azure
shield, silver bar, and cypress tree of the Pecci
family. The Pope is proud to sit upon a

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

throne given to him by the toilers of his own
country.

After a while, a smiling chamberlain in pur-
ple silk, with a resplendent gold chain hung
about his neck, came from the inner chamber.
He chatted with Monsignor Rooker and myself
for a few moments and then, opening the door,
preceded us into the presence of the august
head of the Christian world.

There, behind all the pomp and ceremony,
sat a gentle old man, with a sweet face and the
saddest eyes that ever looked out of a human
head — the quiet shepherd of Christendom.
He sat in a chair of crimson and gold, set close
to a table. Behind him was a carved figure of
the Virgin, and near it a smaller throne. He
wore a skull cap of white watered silk, and a
snowy cassock flowed gracefully about his frail
figure, a plain cross of gold hanging upon the
sunken breast. It was a presence at once
appealing and majestic.

That moment I forgot my newspaper and
the news-thirsty multitudes of New York.

As we advanced to salute the Pope, he held
out his thin, white hand, on which gleamed a

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

great emerald. It was the Fisherman's Ring,
the sign of Apostolic authority throughout the
world. We knelt and kissed the outstretched
hand, and Monsignor Rooker — being a Catho-
lic— reverently pressed his lips to the gold-
embroidered cross on the Pope's crimson velvet
slipper.

His Holiness bade us be seated beside him.
There was surprising vigor in his gestures, and
his voice was clear, deep, and unwavering.

"You are very young," he remarked. "I
expected to see an older man. But your nation
is also young."

It is hard to describe the delicate courtesy
and benignity of Leo XIII.'s manner.

" I have a claim upon Americans for their
respect," he said with kindling eyes, "because
I love them and their country. I have a
great tenderness for those who live in that
land — Protestants and all. Under the Con-
stitution of the United States religion has
perfect liberty and is a growing power for
good. The Church thrives in the air of free-
dom. I love and bless Americans for their
frank, unaffected character and for the respect

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

which they have for Christian morals and the
Christian religion.

" The press — ah, what a power it is get-
ting to be ! — the press and the Church
should be together in the work of elevating
mankind. And the American press should
especially be amiable and benevolent toward
me, because my only desire is to use my
power for the good of the whole people, Prot-
estants and Catholics alike."

The Pope looked at me intently for a
moment.

"You are not one of the Faithful?" he
said.

" I am what journalism has made of me."

"You are all my children," said the Pope,
patting my hand like a father. " Protestants,
Catholics — all, all, — God has placed me
here to watch over and care for you. I have
no other aim on earth than to labor for the
good of the human race.

" I want the Protestants of America as well
as the Catholics to understand me. The
Vicar of Christ is respected in the United
States, but it is not always so in Europe."

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There was an indescribable ring of pathos
in the Pope's voice. His lips trembled.

"Here we have in temporal control men
who feel nothing but hatred for the repre-
sentative of Jesus Christ and offer constant
insults to the Holy See. Enemies of God
armed with governmental power seek not
only to grieve and humble the Holy See in
my person, but to utterly break down the in-
fluence of religion, to disorganize and obliter-
ate the Church, and to overthrow the whole
system of morality upon which civilization
rests. The power of paganism is at work in
Europe again.

"These are times of social unrest and
impending disorder. I recognize the good
impulse that persuaded the German Emperor
to assemble the Great Powers at Berlin and
seek a cure for the disease that afflicts capital
and labor. But there is no power that can
deal with anarchy and social discontent, but
organized religion. It alone can restore the
moral balance to the human race. The result
of the efforts which have been made by
nations to live without Christian guidance can

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be seen in the present state of civilized society
— discontent, hatred, and profound unhappi-
ness.

" I have watched the growing helplessness of
the suffering working classes throughout the
world with anxiety and grief. I have studied
how to relieve society of this terrible confusion.
While I live I will labor to bring about a
change. The troubles of the poor and heavy
laden are largely due to enemies of Christian
morality who want to see Christian history
ended and mankind return to pagan ways.

" Human law cannot reach the real seat of
the conflict between capital and labor. Govern-
ments and legislatures are helpless to restore
harmony. The various nations must do their
work, and I must do mine. Their work is local
and particular, such as the maintenance of
order, and the enforcement of ameliorative laws.
But my work as the head of Christendom must
be universal and on a different plane.

"The world must be re-Christianized. The
moral condition of the workingman and his
employer must be improved. Each must look
at the other through Christian eyes. That is

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

the only way. How vain are the efforts of
nations which seek to bring contentment to
man and master by legislation, forgetting that
the Christian religion alone can draw men
together in love and peace. As the wealth of
the world increases, the gulf between the laborer
and his employer will widen and deepen unless
it be bridged over by Christian charity and the
mutual forbearance which is inspired by Chris-
tian morals. But if the foes of Jesus Christ
and His Church continue to attack and revile
the holy religion which inspires and teaches
sound morals and has civilized the world, these
social disorders, which are but signs on the
horizon to-day, will overwhelm and destroy
them.

"The continued existence of human slavery
in pagan lands is another source of sorrow to
me. As a means of abolishing slavery I have
established missionary colleges and am sending
devoted missionaries into Africa and wherever
men are held in bondage. The true way to
free them is to educate and Christianize them.
An enlightened man cannot be enslaved. For
that reason I shall devote the energies of the

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

church to spreading knowledge among the poor
savages. Humanity must aid me to teach these
unfortunates and save them from slavery. We
must work without ceasing until there is not a
slave anywhere on earth."

His Holiness spoke with visible emotion about
his desire for the disarmament of Europe.

"The existence of these vast armies is a
source of displeasure and sorrow to the Holy
See," he said. " The military life, which has
been invested with a certain glamor, is injur-
ing hundreds of thousands of young men.
That fact must be apparent to every statesman
who seriously considers the question. It sur-
rounds young men with violent and immoral
influences, it turns their thoughts from spirit-
ual things, and tends to harden and degrade
them. These armies are not only full of peril
to the souls of men, but they drain the world
of its wealth. So long as Europe is filled with
soldiery, so long will all the labor represented
by millions of men in arms be withdrawn from
the soil, and the poor will be overburdened
with taxes to support the system. The armies
of Europe are impoverishing Europe.

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

"These great military establishments have
another deplorable effect. They set one people
against another and intensify national jealous-
ies. The inevitable result is the growth of a
spirit of anger and vengefulness. I long to
see a return of peace and charity among the
nations. Mighty armies confronting each other
on every frontier are not consistent with the
teachings of Jesus Christ."

I reminded His Holiness that the principle
of arbitration rather than war had become a
part of the national policy of the United
States.

"Yes," said the Pope, "that is a true and
wise principle, but most of the men who con-
trol the affairs of Europe are not governed by
a desire for truth. See how they exalt godless-
ness ! Look at the .men whose names are
selected here in Italy for honor after death ! —
men who died opposing and reviling Christian-
ity— men like Mazzini."

That was the end of the first newspaper
interview with the Pope. I knelt beside Mon-
signor Rooker and received the Apostolic bene-
diction. Then His Holiness arose.

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

" I hope that you will omit the petty per-
sonal details which are so offensive in news-
paper articles," he said. " They are trivialities
and beneath the dignity of the press."

As we moved out of the room the Pope
called me back to him, and placing his frail
hands upon my head, his eyes brimming
with emotion, he said in a voice of great
tenderness : —

" Son, you are young and you may be useful
to the world. May the Father, Son, and Holy
Spirit go with you. Farewell ! "

And as we retired we looked back at the
slender white figure standing alone in the shad-
owy room — and I knew that I had been face
to face with the most exalted personality of
modern history. Of all the famous men I
have met in my world-wanderings since that
day, — statesmen, monarchs, philosophers, phil-
anthropists, — I have seen no other man who
seemed to have such a universal point of view.

Once more I saw the Pope, borne aloft on
the shoulders of the Swiss Guard into the

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Sistine Chapel in a scene of supreme splendor
— the triple crown upon his head, jewels flash-
ing on his bosom, the Sistine choir chanting
Palestrina's deathless music, and clouds of in-
cense floating over the heads of a procession
headed by the Knights of Malta, and followed
by a long train of cardinals, archbishops, bish-
ops, and monsignori.

The sunlight fell upon lines of shining steel,
nodding plumes, golden chains, shimmering
robes of silk, and all the glittering symbolry of
pontifical power and glory.

And gathered within the walls immortalized
by Raphael and Michael Angelo, before the
eyes of the assembled aristocracy of Rome, was
a horde of American savages in paint, feathers,
and blankets, carrying tomahawks and knives.
At the entrance of the chapel stood Buffalo
Bill, Buck Taylor, and Broncho Bill, while a
troop of cowboys, splashed with mud, and
picturesque beyond description, lined the human
aisle beyond.

When the Pope appeared, swaying in his
resplendent seat, high above the assembled host,
the cowboys bowed their heads, the Indians

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

knelt down, and Rocky Bear, the surly old
chief, made the sign of the cross.

The Pontiff leaned yearningly toward the
rude groups and blessed them again and
again.

A few days afterward I was permitted to
walk in the ancient garden of the Vatican. It
was a day of surpassing loveliness. Every
wandering breath of air came laden with the
perfumes of distant fields of flowers. Here
Pius IX. used to ride on his white mule among
the venerable groves, interspersed with foun-
tains and statues; and here the poets of an
elder time declaimed in the open air to the
assembled gallants of the Papal courts.

I saw the herd of shaggy goats from Africa
which were driven every day to the door of the
Pope's apartments and freshly milked. I ate
grapes in the vineyard that furnished wine for
the Pope's table. I saw the Pope's summer
retreat, and the little tea pavilion on the road-
side, with the scarlet velvet chair, and the caged
parrots screaming the Pope's name.

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I saw the snow-white deer, and the snow-
white peacock — emblem of immortality.

Then my guide suddenly knelt in the road
and crossed himself; and in the shadow of a
mighty tree I saw a bent white figure, and a
hand faintly waving the sign of the cross.

CHAPTER II

The Storming of Ping Yang

HEAR the story of the storming of
Ping Yang by the Japanese army,
in the heart of Corea — the hermit
nation — and hear it from one who wrote by
lantern light on the outmost ramparts to es-
cape the terrific sounds of victory that roared
between the shattered walls of the old city,
while the reek of a thousand half-buried Chi-
nese corpses rose from the darkened field over
which the conquering soldiery still marched
northward in pursuit of Corea's oppressors.

Lying on the parched grass at night, with
my cracked lantern tied to an ancient arrow
stuck in the ground, the breeze fluttering the
clumsy sheets of native paper on which I set
down the details of this historic struggle, I
could hear the jolly whistling of my blanket-
comrade, Frederic Villiers, the famous war
artist, as he worked on his pictures in a
wrecked pagoda two hundred feet away.

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The armies of Asiatic barbarism and Asiatic
civilization met on this ground to fight the
first great battle of the war that ended in
the fall of Wei-Hai-Wei and Port Arthur;
and here Japan emancipated the helpless
Corean nation from the centuried despotism
of China.

The Chinese fired on the Red Cross, vio-
lated hospitals, beheaded sick soldiers, tortured
prisoners to death, and used the white flag
of peace to cover treachery, while the Japan-
ese tenderly nursed Chinese captives and
risked their lives to rescue the enemy's
wounded. Japan covered herself with glory.
I can bear witness to scenes of kindness and
forbearance that shamed the military history
of Europe. A nation that does not acknowl-
edge Christianity planted the scarlet cross of
Christ on the battlefield, and the thunder of
the fight was scarcely over before the work
of charity began among friends and foes alike.

The hoary city of Ping Yang, once the
capital of the hermit kingdom, sprawls down
to the edge of the Tai-Tong River, which is
half a mile wide and without bridges. This

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is the eastern boundary. Its crooked streets
ascend gradually to the west and north, ending
in steep precipices, crested with castellated
stone walls overlooking the valley. Beyond
are several small, timbered hills. Southward
is a level plain, stretching westward from the
river for three-quarters of a mile to a range
of hills. The muddy river runs north and
south. From the fortified heights can be
seen a tumult of mountain tops in every
direction. A thousand years ago Ping Yang
was the strongest city in Asia. Its walls
are thick and its gates massive and well placed
on the plain.

In forty-two days the Chinese army built
more than thirty earthworks outside the walls
of Ping Yang. There were miles of new forti-
fications. Many of the walls were fifteen feet
high, and it is hard to understand how troops
with energy enough to work such a miracle
of construction could be driven from their vast
fortress by an attacking force of only ten
thousand men.

To the south of the city the Chinese erected
twenty huge fortifications, loopholed and

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

moated. They were garrisoned by six thou-
sand bayonets and artillery, reenforced by a
body of picked Manchurian cavalry, armed
with swords and lances fifteen feet long. On
the other side of the river they built three
strong earthworks.

The western and northern sides of Ping
Yang were defended by a continuous chain
of new works, some on the northwest angle
being on the summits of hills. One fort was
three hundred feet about the level plain. In
this angle of the city, on the edge of a preci-
pice, were massed three thousand five hundred
Chinese infantry and cavalry from ancient
Moukden, with a small force of artillery. Still
farther to the west were forts on three hill-
tops armed with Krupp and Catling guns.

Everywhere on the broad walls were crimson
and yellow banners — hundreds and hundreds
of them. Each of the six Chinese generals
displayed an immense flag, its size indicating
his rank. The flag of General Yeh, the com-
mander-in-chief, measured thirty feet and bore
a single character representing his name.
That flag now belongs to the Emperor of

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Japan. When the Japanese vanguard reached
Whang-ju, its commander mounted a hill five
miles from Ping Yang and through his tele-
scope he could see a tossing line of banners
for miles along the line of fortifications. The
Chinese officers strutted up and down the
walls, preceded by their individual flags, while
drums beat and trumpets sounded defiance.

As the Japanese army moved forward to the
rescue, the Chinese generals made merry with
the dancing girls of Ping Yang, renowned
throughout Asia for their grace and beauty. All
was pomp by day and revelry by night. The
Chinese soldiers broke into the houses of timid
Coreans, and treated their wives and daughters
shamefully. Drunkenness and debauchery ran
riot, and while the generals caroused with the
dancing girls, the whole city was looted. Hell
seemed to be let loose. The frightened inhabit-
ants fled to the fields and forests — men, women,
and children — and remained there until the Jap-
anese army entered the city, when they crept
back, many of them dying from starvation
and exposure.

This was the situation when General Oshima

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

led a brigade of about four thousand Japanese
infantry, cavalry, and artillery in sight of the
three forts on the eastern shore of the Tai-
Tong River. The Corean vassals were bowing
their necks to the Chinese yoke for the last
time. Ping Yang was to be attacked by four
Japanese columns, marching from the coast by
different routes. Oshima's force was to make
a demonstration until the three other Japanese
forces, marching in from the coast by different
directions, had stolen into their positions around
Ping Yang.

The Chinese commanders, in huge specta-
cles, heroes of many a classical debate, and
surrounded by the painted, embroidered, and
carved monsters of mythological war, but
wholly ignorant of modern military science,
awaited the oncoming of the trim little, up-to-
date soldiers of Japan, with all the scorn of
learned foolishness. The Chinese garrison,
wearing boastful inscriptions on their breasts
and backs, and clad in bright-colored apron-
trousers and wide-sleeved fantastic jackets,
were armed with American rifles, which they
had recently learned how to use.

OA/" THE GREAT HIGHWAY

Gray old China, profoundly calm in the
knowledge of blue and white porcelain, im-
mersed in the scholastic beauty of the ancient
odes, — lazy, luxurious, dreamy China — had
bought a few thousand American rifles and
German cannons.

Yet you may arm a fortress with the mighti-
est enginery of death that military science can
evolve; you may equip men with the most
cunningly perfect weapons and flawless am-
munition ; but unless the trained brain, and eye
and body are behind the mechanical means of
destruction, unless every unit in the army is
controlled by the law of the whole, unless the
flag represents to the soldier something more
then mere authority, and war something nobler
than the mere killing of men for pay — unless
these elements are present, rifles, cannon, and
repeating arms are in vain.

A few gentle, foolish Coreans skulked
about the streets of Ping Yang in their white
cotton garments and monstrous hats, and
watched the swaggering Manchurian braves
with a dim idea that the dapper, disciplined
Japanese battalions, clad in close-buttoned

THE GREAT HIGHWAY

European uniforms, were marching to their
doom.

The broad Tai-Tong River lay between Gen-
eral Oshima and the city. Two thousand
Chinese soldiers were in the three fortifications
in front of his brigade, and just beyond was
an insecure bridge, resting on boats, hurriedly
built by the Chinese. To reach this bridge
and cross the river to the east gate of Ping
Yang, it was necessary to take the three
fortifications.

For two days Oshima attacked the triple
fortress. Then, by a clever movement, his
bayonets carried the southern breastworks.

The Chinese had advanced out of their
works just before dark, sending a cow and a
band of trumpeters ahead — a Mongolian skir-
mishing device. There was absolute silence
in the Japanese ranks until the enemy was
within a distance of three hundred feet.
Then the Chinese column was swept by vol-
ley after volley, and took to its heels, followed
by Oshima's cavalry, which was prevented
from doing effective work by the dense brush.

That night General Oshima received word

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

from General Tatsumi, who had marched an-
other Japanese brigade by a circuitous route
to a position on the north of Ping Yang.
Another strong Japanese force, under the
command of Colonel Sato, had arrived from
Gensan, and had taken up a position on the
northwest of the city, within easy reach of
General Tatsumi. General Nozu, the senior
Japanese commander, had stealthily marched
in from the southwest, and his brigade lay in
a valley between two small hills on which
his artillery was placed. Ping Yang was
surrounded.

Japanese couriers stole from camp to camp
in the darkness, and the Japanese commanders
agreed that the original plan of attack should
be followed. Meanwhile, the Chinese drums
throbbed riotously in the city, and the danc-
ing girls beguiled the Chinese generals.

As the night wore on, the tired Japanese
troops moved silently on all sides toward the
city. The moon was shining brightly, and a
light breeze came from the northeast. The
Japanese ranks were as perfect as though the
army were on parade. It is a peculiarity of

THE GREAT HIGHWAY

the Chinese army that its pickets and out-
posts keep close to the fortifications, so that
the garrison of Ping Yang had no warning
of the advancing enemy until at three o'clock
in the morning the skirmish lines of the four
Japanese columns opened fire.

General Tatsumi's infantry lay under a round
fort on the crest of a steep bluff — the very
spot where Konishi, the Japanese conqueror,
broke into Ping Yang with his army three
centuries before. A battalion of Japanese
bayonets dashed up the steep heights, while
another detachment of infantry charged around
the base of the hill into a wooded valley, filled
with graves, and, in the midst of them, the gor-
geous tomb of Ki Cha, the founder of Corea.

The Chinese host swarmed down the heights
to meet their foe, fighting desperately with
Winchester rifles. There were officers in front
and officers behind., waving their swords, and
urging on the Manchurian braves. From the
walls above a storm of lead cut the leaves
and branches from the trees, but the Japan-
ese kept well under cover, and drove the
Chinese up the hill foot by foot.

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

Just at daybreak two companies of Japanese
infantry made a bayonet charge straight up
the hill, in the teeth of the concentrated fire
of five hundred repeating rifles. The gallant
little men broke into cheers as they emerged
from the trees and climbed the precipice, while
the Chinese infantry retreated in confusion to
the round fort, many of them throwing their
rifles away.

As the glittering line of bayonets swept up
to' the rough walls and the shouts of the ad-
vancing soldiers rang out over the ramparts,
the Chinese garrison abandoned the fort and
fled behind the walls of an inner fortification.
A few leaped over the precipice, and their
mangled bodies rolled down into a stream.
Captain Koqua, who led the bayonet charge,
fell as he advanced to attack the second forL
At eight o'clock the garrison in the second fort
retreated to the inmost fortification, and the
Japanese poured in through a gate, bayoneting
the fugitives as they ran. The Manchurians
fought magnificently as individuals. Nothing
could be finer than the courage with which they
faced the terrible volleys of the Japanese in-

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

fantry, but the moment a charge was made
they ran like frightened animals, tearing the
uniforms from their bodies and dropping their
weapons.

Now the artillery in the forts on the hills
all around the city began to roar. General
Nozu's batteries on the western eminence
played upon the Chinese forts to the north,
which were being attacked on the other side
by Colonel Sato. His cannon also kept the
twenty forts on the south of the city in a
state of panic and prevented them from con-
centrating their fire against Oshima's lines.
Nozu's infantry and cavalry scoured the valley
under the western walls of the city, and by
a deadly cross fire kept the Chinese garrison
in the northwest angle of Ping Yang from
escaping the volleys of Tatsumi's troops, who
had already taken two lines of fortifications.

A terrific battle was in progress on the other
side of the river, where Oshima's troops
charged the three forts again and again under
a terrible artillery fire, while his howitzer bat-
teries tore gaps in the Chinese ranks. The
Japanese soldiers were horrified by the sight

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

of the Chinese hacking off the heads of pris-
oners in the distance, and they fought furiously,
charging up to the very muzzles of the enemy's
cannon. One of Oshima's battalions charged
a fort on the bank of the river and carried the
outer walls. Here the troops fought for hours
almost hand to hand, but the Chinese held the
walls bravely, while a body of their sharp-
shooters, lying behind the bushes at the edge
of the river, kept up a deadly enfilading fire
against the left flank of the Japanese. All the
ground on this side of the fortification lay over
subterranean powder mines, but the Chinese
in their excitement forgot to explode them.

The great mass of forts on the southern side
of Ping Yang rained shot and shell across the
river, and the drifting cannon smoke was red-
dened with the flames of Catling volleys and
infantry fire. The death cries of men and
horses swelled the giant chorus of battle,
but the yells of the infuriated Japanese soldiers
could be heard above it all as they closed in
upon the forts and attempted to scale the walls.

The city was half hidden in battle smoke, and
the crimson and yellow banners of the Chinese

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

were riddled with bullets. Blood, blood every-
where— on the walls, in the rippling river, on
the green hillsides, in the flowering valleys.
Blood trickling over gravestones, blood dashed
against the walls of the ancient temples, blood
on the rocks, blood on the roof-tops — every-
where the cold gleam of steel in the swirling
cannon mist and sheeted flame ; and away off
in the treetops or cowering in the grain-fields
the terrified Coreans, listening to the sounds of
the mighty struggle that was to make them
free or confirm their slavery.

An hour after the battle opened in the dark-
ness, two companies of Oshima's infantry crossed
the Tai-Tong River in small Corean boats below
the twenty southern forts, and boldly advanced
upon the bewildering labyrinth of walls. Be-
tween the attacking companies and the forts
was a wide moat filled with water and mined
with torpedoes. A thousand Chinese bayonets
advanced to meet the Japanese, but were driven
back across the moat, inside of the fort.

The sky darkened and rain fell. To the
amazement of the Japanese soldiers, the Chi-
nese troops planted huge oiled-paper umbrellas

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

on the walls of their forts to keep them dry
while they fought. In every direction Chinese
umbrellas could be seen, glistening like turtles
on the earthworks.

Now came the most magnificent spectacle of
the battle. The garrison in the city, unable to
withstand the withering fire of the Japanese,
were attempting to feel their way out. A body
of two hundred and seventy Manchurian cav-
alry, mounted on snow-white horses, moved
from the northwest angle of Ping Yang, gal-
loped along a road skirting the city's western
wall, and on reaching the southern end of the
road, suddenly wheeled and charged down the
valley, where Nozu's troops were stretched
across from hill to hill between his batteries.

On went the splendid troops of warriors, and
the earth shook as they thundered into the val-
ley, with their long black lances set and pen-
nons dancing from the shining spear-points.
A few were armed with rifles and bayonets.
On, over the stream and through the rice-fields,
a heaving mass of blue and scarlet, rising and
falling on billows of white horses and bristling
with steel.

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

Not a man stirred in the Japanese line, as the
Manchurians swept down on the centre, pre-
pared to cut their way through and escape.
When the cavalry were within two hundred feet,
the earth seemed to open and vomit smoke and
flame, as the united Japanese infantry and artil-
lery opened fire upon the doomed horsemen.
Horses and riders went down together, and
were hurled in bloody heaps. Forty of the
Manchurians escaped through the line, but
were cut in pieces by a separate company of
Japanese cavalry in the rear.

Three hundred more rode out from the artil-
lery-swept heights — three hundred brilliantly
clad warriors, also on white horses. Halting for
a moment, and setting their long lances, they
charged down the slope. The dense smoke in
the valley prevented them from learning the fate
of their comrades who preceded them. As they
galloped forward, the Chinese artillerymen
cheered them. Down into the gray mist of
death they went, and when they reached the
middle of the valley, the Japanese line fell upon
them. Not a man escaped. A third charge of a
hundred horsemen resulted in utter annihilation.

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

The scene was horrible beyond words to tell,
and the streams on either side of the valley road
were red with Chinese blood. After the battle,
there were counted in a space of two hundred
yards the bodies of two hundred and seventy
horses and two hundred and sixty men.

The rain continued to fall in torrents, and the
Chinese soldiers on the walls, huddling under
their umbrellas, blazed away blindly. All this
time the storming party in the two captured
fortifications at the northwest angle of the city
was pressing the troops in the inner forts, send-
ing volley upon volley over the walls. This was
the key of the situation. The Japanese com-
manders could see the great flags of the Chinese
generals just beyond.

At four o'clock in the afternoon the Chinese
hoisted a white flag on the inner fort, and a party
of Japanese officers descended from the cap-
tured positions to parley at the gate. The Chi-
nese officers gravely announced that it was
impossible to surrender in the rain, as the wet
weather prevented them from making the
proper arrangements for a capitulation. If the
Japanese would stop fighting until the next

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

day, and the weather cleared, the city would be
surrendered.

The watchful Japanese officers observed Chi-
nese troops stealing forward along the walls
under cover of the flag of truce. They answered
that an army that could fight in the rain could
also surrender in the rain. They insisted that
the hoisting of the white flag over the enemy's
works was an act of surrender and demanded
that the gate should be thrown open so that the
Japanese troops might enter without further
bloodshed. Again the bedizened Chinese offi-
cers pleaded for delay. It was raining very
hard, and the mud was very deep. It would
be a terrible thing to move the garrison out of
shelter; but to-morrow they would cheerfully
go away.

It was evident that the crafty Chinese were
merely trying to gain time. The Japanese re-
newed the assault and fought long into the
night. Every now and then flights of Corean
arrows came whizzing through the darkness.
The Chinese were forcing the childish native
soldiers into the fight, slashing them over the
shoulders with whips. Hour after hour the

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

hungry and exhausted soldiers struggled on
the slippery and bloody hill. Those who were
killed fell headlong over the ramparts into the
valley. The rain beat in the faces of the fight-
ers and drenched their bodies as they pressed
on in the gloom, their path lit only by the blaze
of the rifle volleys. The fighting had ceased on
all other sides of the city. The whole Chinese
garrison, with the exception of the Moukden
troops defending the northwest angle had fled
in the darkness between the forces of Colonel
Salo and General Nozu.

As the Chinese retreated through the valley
they cut the heads and hands from the Japanese
dead. They broke into the Japanese hospital
quarters, butchered and beheaded the wounded
men, and swept to the north with their dancing
girls and bloody trophies.

The Japanese fighting on the heights above
caught a glimpse of the flying troops among
the trees in the valley below and sent a volley
into their flank.

After twenty -two hours of continuous fighting
General Tatsumi's infantry carried the inner
fortifications of the northwest angle by sheer

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

dash. At one o'clock in the morning they
scaled the walls. The Chinese garrison howled
and ran about like hunted wolves. They jumped
over the parapets and crawled under the bushes.
As they ran they threw away their arms and
uniforms.

Meanwhile General Oshima's brigade had
gained the rude bridge on boats and had
crossed the river. A bullet wounded him in
the side, killed the interpreter behind him, and
passed through a regimental flag.

Thirty Japanese war correspondents, armed
with enormous swords, entered Ping Yang at
the head of the army, and fought until they
were exhausted. The general was compelled
to issue an order prohibiting newspaper men
from fighting.

When day dawned Ping Yang was in the
hands of the Japanese army. The scene
around the city was ghastly. For miles the
ground was littered with dead men and horses.
Thousands of gay Chinese uniforms were scat-
tered on the field. At the first sign of defeat
the officers and men had stripped themselves of
their outer clothing in order to claim immunity

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

as merchants. Nine hundred prisoners were
taken, and not a man was in uniform.

All along the ramparts of the city the ground
was covered with empty cartridge shells. In
some places they lay an inch deep. Thousands
of birds of prey were feeding on the dead lying
among broken lances, overturned cannons, heaps
of camp wreck, torn banners, swords, and dead
horses.

That victory ended the power of China in
Corea.

After gathering the story of the battle, I
travelled in a junk down the Tai-Tong River
and thence along the Corean coast in a steamer
to Chemulpo. From that city a messenger took
my despatch over the sea to Japan, and from
there it was sent to San Francisco and tele-
graphed across the continent to New York.

When I arrived in the dirty little Corean sea-
port, weary and sickened by the bloody field of
Ping Yang, a messenger handed me a cable-
gram from Ohio. It contained two words —
"Boy — well." It was the announcement of
the birth of my first child. Thirteen tissue
paper tags, bearing the seals of thirteen differ-

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

ent headquarters of the Japanese army, showed
that the news had been carried from battlefield
to battlefield to reach me. The news of a new
life was brought to me from the other side of the
world, just as I sent word of a thousand freshly
slain.

That night, on my way back to Ping Yang,
I found the main Japanese fleet at the mouth
of the Tai-Tong River. Admiral Ito had
defeated the Chinese fleet, and had just fallen
back on the Corean coast for repairs and ammu-
nition. It was a great opportunity for a war
correspondent. No other newspaper man had
reached the victorious fleet, and fortune had
given to me the first story of the most important
naval fight of modern times — the battle of the
Yalu.

When I boarded the flagship Haskidate, Ad-
miral Ito was asleep, but he dressed himself
and sent for his fleet captains in order to help
me out with the details of the conflict.

As the Japanese admiral sat at his table, sur-
rounded by his officers, with the rude charts of
the battle spread out before him, he looked
like a sea-commander — tall, eagle-eyed, square-

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

jawed, with a sabre scar furrowed across his
broad forehead ; a close-mouthed man whose
coat was always buttoned to his chin. Bending
over the maps and smoothing out the paper
with his sinewy, big-knuckled hands, the lamp-
light gleaming against his powerful face, he
was a man not easily forgotten.

And when the tale of that thrilling struggle
on the Yellow Sea was over, the admiral turned
to me smilingly.

" It is a big piece of news for you," he said.

"Yes," I answered, "but I have received a
still greater piece of news."

Then I drew from my pocket the cablegram
announcing the birth of my boy, and read it.

" Good ! " cried the admiral. " We will cele-
brate the event. Steward, bring champagne ! "

Standing in a circle, the admiral and his
captains clinked their glasses together and
drank the health of my little son.

CHAPTER III

Interview with the King of Corea

ONE night as I slept in my field-dress
on the floor of a captured Ping Yang
palace, I was awakened by the sound
of angry voices, and saw the treacherous native
governor of the province, lying bound in his
splendid silken robes, like a great scarlet
butterfly, with a stern little Japanese colonel
standing over him, and commanding his sol-
diers to strip the white jade pigeon — a sacred
sign of authority — from the trembling pris-
oner's official hat.

"I could do nothing but submit," whined
the governor. "The Chinese army had pos-
session before your army came."

"You are a coward and a traitor," growled
the colonel, spurning the prisoner with his
foot.

So, almost from the time of Christ, the
Corean nation had crouched in fear between

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

Japan and China, prostrating itself alternately
before the rival thrones.

A traveller in Corea is bewildered by the
effects of three thousand years of hermit life
upon this strange people. They are not sav-
ages. Thirty centuries of civilization are set
down in their literature. Nowhere else in the
world have I seen such magnificent specimens
of physical manhood. The ordinary European
is a pygmy among the tall, straight, powerful
Coreans. An indescribable gravity and dig-
nity of manner lends itself to the impressive
grace and strength and the noble features of
this ancient race. As the men become old
they grow long beards, which add to their
naturally majestic bearing.

Yet the Coreans are the emptiest-headed,
most childlike, and most generally foolish peo-
ple among civilized nations. They are the
grown-up children of Asia. Their ignorance
is not like the ignorance of Central Africa.
Hundreds of years ago, they inspired Japan
with the love of art, and their literature is as
old as Egypt. They are gentle and meditative.
Throughout the Corean peninsula, stately quo-

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

tations from the noblest Chinese odes are
painted on the public buildings, in the quaint
summer pagodas, and on the walls of dwelling
houses. Their very battle flags are inscribed
with philosophic sayings.

But the Coreans are drugged with abstract
scholasticism and demonology. They are cred-
ulous almost beyond belief. A white-bearded,
spectacled Solomon, who can recite whole poems
from the Chinese classics, will tell you gravely
that there are not more wells in Ping Yang,
because the city is an island and, if too many
holes were cut in the bottom, it might sink.
There is a spirit for the hill, another one for the
valley, another for the rice-field, another for
the woods, another for the river, another for
the house, and so on, endlessly. Cut off from
active intercourse with other nations for thou-
sands of years, the Coreans represent the most
remote ages of mystic Oriental civilization.

The mountainous, many-templed peninsula
has been swept by many wars. More than a
century before the Christian era began, the
native king defeated a Chinese army on the
banks of the Tai-Tong River. Nearly seven

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

hundred years afterward, the Emperor of China
sent three hundred thousand soldiers to conquer
Corea and failed. His successor raised a
force of a million warriors, armed principally
with trumpets, banners, and gongs, and was
again baffled. More than two hundred thou-
sand of the yellow host died on the soil of
Corea. And yet, a generation later, China sent
another army to subdue the hermit nation.
Corea massed a hundred and fifty thousand
lancemen, swordsmen, and archers. A great
battle was fought near Ping Yang, and after
twenty thousand of his men had been slain, the
Corean general surrendered and the Chinese
divided among themselves fifty thousand horses
and ten thousand coats of mail.

War after war reddened the mountains and
valleys, and still a native dynasty remained on
the hermit throne of Corea, the same profound
desire for isolation from the rest of the world
pervaded the people.

Three centuries ago Japan invaded the little
kingdom. The King of Corea appealed to China
for help. The Japanese defeated the united
Chinese and Corean armies, and, after one

The King of Corea

OAT THE GREAT HIGHWAY

battle cut off the ears and noses of thirty-seven
hundred dead enemies, packed them in casks,
and sent them to Japan to make the famous ear-
mound of Kioto. Three hundred thousand
houses were burned when the conquering army
put the city of Keku-shiu to the torch.

In spite of her centuries of suffering, in spite
of the invasions and rebellions, Corea remained
a recluse among the nations. Her king cheer-
fully consented to be the vassal of China or
Japan, or both at the same time. All he asked
was to be let alone with his gentle, dreamy peo-
ple and his soft-eyed dancing girls.

This was the attitude of the King of Corea
when I talked with him at Seoul. He was grate-
ful to the Japanese for emancipating him from
the Chinese, but he hinted that some nation —
the United States, for instance — might find it
convenient to emancipate him from the emanci-
pators. He longed for a return to the ancient
national quiet — philosophy, poetry, and solitude.

Not having eaten of the lotus flower, I felt
criminally modern in this venerable country.
The solemn old men, with their big spectacles,
flowing beards, umbrella-like hats, yard-long

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

pipes, and calm faces, pacing majestically along
the narrow streets or on the winding mountain
paths, seemed to rebuke the news-hunting fever
in my veins. What was an American news-
paper— born every morning only to die at
night — to that mild, contented people, whose
civilization had survived the shocks of three
thousand years ? What could the telegraph,
telephone, steam engine, or printing press add
to their happiness ?

The native crew of the junk that carried me
down the Tai-Tong River from Ping Yang mu-
tinied. I called the leader to me and let him
look through my powerful field-glasses. Then
I allowed him to look through the wrong end of
the glasses. After that I unscrewed one of the
lenses and, concentrating the rays of the sun,
burnt a hole in the wooden deck.

That settled it; the crew surrendered and
went to work. But not one of them dared to
touch even my clothes, lest I might bewitch him.

At Chemulpo I saw a gigantic Corean porter,
who could lift twelve hundred pounds on his
shoulders, burst into tears when my eighteen-
year-old Japanese interpreter slapped his face.

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

He was strong enough to have killed the inter-
preter with a single blow ; but it never seemed
to occur to him to strike back.

When I reached Seoul, the picturesque capi-
tal of Corea, having slept in my riding boots all
night on the deck of a little British steam launch
beside Dr. Sill, the American minister, I found
that the King — alarmed by the presence of the
victorious Japanese army on his soil — had re-
fused to receive any more visitors, withdrawing
himself even from direct communication with
the foreign ministers.

An interview with the King would give a
quaint variety to the endless descriptions of
fighting. The American public must be allowed
to see the inmost throne of the royal palace ;
American journalism must invade the presence
of the hermit monarch — to touch whose person
was an offence punishable by death — see his
face, question him, and weave his sorrows into
some up-to-date political moral. The artificial
majesty of kings, after all, counts for little before
the levelling processes of the modern newspaper
power. It may be intrusive, it may be irrever-
ent, it may be destructive of sentiment ; but it

OAT THE GREAT HIGH WAT

gradually breaks down the walls of tradition and
prejudice that divide the human race. It intro-
duces the king to the peasant. It makes the
East known to the West in an understandable
dialect. It is the subtlest, swiftest element in
the chemistry of modern civilization.

There was one foreigner alone who could
reach the King at that time — the King's doctor.
That man was Dr. Horace N. Allen, then Sec-
retary of the American Legation, and now
American Minister to Corea. A sovereign who
lives in daily dread of poison is bound to be on
intimate and friendly terms with his physician.
Through Dr. Allen's intercession I secured his
Majesty's consent to an interview.

But how was I to secure the conventional
swallow-tail costume in which I must appear in
the palace ? My rough corduroy riding dress,
spurred boots, flannel shirt, and slouch hat were
all I had. The situation was tragic. The
American Legation sat in council on the subject
and solved the problem. The American Minis-
ter lent me a tall hat, white shirt and collar. A
naval lieutenant lent me a pair of black trousers,
and an officer of marines contributed a swallow-

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

tailed coat with a vest to match. I borrowed
the shoes of the Minister's son. Thus arrayed,
with the Minister's generously large hat slipping
down on my ears, I went with Dr. Allen to see
his Majesty, Li Hsi, ruler of the Land of Morn-
ing Calm, in behalf of the shrieking, news-
paper-worshipping American multitude.

We were carried in curtained sedan chairs
through the swarming, crooked streets of old
Seoul to one of the great gates of the palace.
There we alighted, and followed a solemn
ckusa, clad in a blue silk robe adorned with
white stocks, who trudged on before us into
the royal grounds in big, ceremonial, black
cloth boots.

The King's palace consists of four or five
hundred rambling houses set within giant
stone walls. Acres and acres of dull tiled
roofs rise above tawdry dwellings daubed with
red, blue, yellow, and white, with here and
there fantastic gargoyles of carved wood peer-
ing out from under quaint Asiatic eaves.

There was an air of desolation over it all.
The hall and lotus pond, where the King lan-
guished among his dark-eyed dancing girls,

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

were deserted, and spiders were spinning their
webs across the entrance. Water purled wan-
tonly from a broken fountain. A shattered
door, gilded and tinted, lay at the side of an
empty shrine. Now and then a lazy official
in an enormous hat and silken robe shambled
out of a doorway, and looked at us. The
sleepy, dilapidated sentries presented arms
— many of them guns without locks — as we
passed through the age-worn streets of the
royal demesne. Once we caught a glimpse
of a woman's face, half veiled, at a win-
dow— probably one of the King's beautiful
slaves.

Three thousand people usually live in the
palace grounds, but that day it was like a
deserted town but for the slouching, uneasy
guards. Treachery lurked in every shadow ;
murder crouched in every street. Only a few
months later the Queen — she who poisoned
so many of her rivals — was assassinated in
these grounds and burned to ashes.

We walked for about a quarter of a mile
among the old buildings, and then we came
to an open pavilion surrounded by latticed

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

screens, where Hong Woo Kwan, the moon-
faced interpreter of the American Legation,
clad in a richly embroidered court dress, met
us, and seated us at a small table. A moment
later a smug, smiling Corean rustled in, shook
hands with himself, and bowed to us. He was
the King's cook, a man not to be overlooked
in a monarchy whose destinies are so often
controlled by poison. Champagne and cigar-
ettes were set before us. Here we sat until
the King sent word that he was ready, and
the guard was turned out to salute us.

The way led through a small wooden gate
guarded by seven or eight awkward soldiers,
three of whom were without arms. A few
steps along a crooked lane, lined with gor-
geously painted little houses, brought us to
another small gate, also closely guarded, and,
on passing through it, we found ourselves in
a curious paved courtyard, on the opposite
side of which was a frontless room, raised
above the ground like a stage in a theatre,
with wooden steps at the side leading up to
it. As we crossed the yard and ascended the
steps, we could see the King surrounded by

OA/" THE GREAT HIGHWAY

his palace officials — remarkably like a group-
ing in some drama.

In another moment I was face to face with
the unhappy sovereign of Corea. He stood
behind a table, in front of a gaudily uphol-
stered European chair, with his small, nervous
hands crossed lightly over his ceinture, — a
slender, shy man, with an oval face, thin,
silky mustache and chin beard, a kind, vo-
luptuous mouth, and soft, dark eyes. He
had the eyes of a beautiful girl. When he
smiled he hung his head on one side, half
closed his eyes, looked straight at us, and
opened them slowly with the expression of a
bashful woman. The King did not extend his
hand. To touch him intentionally is death ; to
touch him by accident means that the offender
must wear a red cord around his wrist for
the rest of his life. It was once a capital
crime to look at him in the streets. The
King's person is divine. When he goes
abroad in his city all doors must be shut and
the owner of each house is compelled to kneel
before his door with a broom and dustpan in
his hand as emblems of humility. All the

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

windows must be sealed lest some one should
look down upon the monarch. So sacred is
the person of the King, that when he moves
outside of his palace two sedan chairs, exactly
alike in appearance, are carried by the guards,
and no one but the highest ministers knows
in which chair the King sits.

Yet I could see no good reason why an
American newspaper correspondent should not
be quite comfortable in the presence of this
exalted being. He was for the moment
simply "a big piece of news."

The King was clad in a crimson silk robe
with wide sleeves, yoked at the shoulders
with cloth of gold, and caught at the waist
by a gold-buckled, loose, black belt. A haze
of black gauze covered the royal mantle, and
a sparkling jewel held it across the breast.
He wore on his small, shapely head a strange
structure of stiffened black net, not unlike
the semi-transparent framework of an Ameri-
can woman's bonnet. It rose in the form of
an exaggerated Phrygian cap, and was pro-
vided with grotesque, black wings standing
upright. The monarch's legs were enveloped

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

in huge, baggy trousers of white silk, and his
swathed ankles bulged out above embroidered
Corean shoes. On either side stood two rat-
eyed, watchful eunuchs in pale blue robes,
their dark faces scowling and their hands
hidden in the folds of huge sleeves.

To the right of the King the crown prince
leaned against a table, a half-witted, open-
mouthed youth, attired like his father, save
that his mantle was purple. General Ye", the
commander-in-chief of the army, stood on the
left of the crown prince, velvet-eyed, green-
clad, a mighty jewelled sword gleaming at his
side.

The courtiers were spread out on the stage
in a half circle like a many-colored fan.
The ceiling of carved rafters overhead was
a confused whirl of colors. The walls were
latticed and panelled with translucent native
paper.

Three slow bows and a pause. The twenty-
eighth king of Corea was about to undergo
the ordeal of a newspaper interview, an expe-
rience undreamed of by his predecessors. The
interpreter folded his hands across the embroid-

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

ered storks on his bosom, bent his head rever-
ently, and advanced.

" I am glad to receive a representative of the
American press," whispered the King in the
ear of the bowed interpreter, who whispered the
words to me without daring to move his head.
" It is my wish and the wish of my people that
Corea shall be absolutely free and independent.
I appeal now and I shall continue to appeal
to the civilized nations of the world to assist in
preserving the integrity of my kingdom. I
especially rely upon the United States. The
American government was the first to make a
treaty with Corea, and that treaty contains a
promise of help in time of danger. I look to the
United States for a fulfilment of that promise.
My faith in your country is unshaken. When
other nations threaten me, I turn to America."

" But how can the United States help you
now ? " I asked.

The King looked embarrassed, and his
whispering grew fainter than ever. It was
plain that he felt constrained in the presence
of his courtiers. He hesitated, looked about
him nervously, then said : —

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

" If a few American soldiers were sent to
the palace to protect my person, it would
change the situation."

I had heard many stories concerning the
pressure put upon the King by the Japanese
— that he was continually under duress ; that
a sword was drawn upon him before he signed
the treaty making Corea a military ally of
Japan ; that he was kept in a constant state of
terror by a reduction of the palace guard to a
handful of untrained, half -armed louts; and
that he was unable to sleep at night for fear
of sudden attempts upon his life. But this
was the first time that the King had publicly
avowed that he was practically a prisoner in
his own capital. The rest of the interview
related to matters that were interesting at that
time but are hardly worth setting down here.

While the King was speaking, I could see a
pair of glittering black eyes peering through
an opening in the screen. Behind the screen
stood the famous Queen whose ashes were
soon to be scattered over her own garden. It
was this extraordinary woman, who, when dis-
guised and flying for safety in 1884, unveiled her

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

bosom to deceive her foes, crying, " See ! would
the Queen of Corea do that? Would she not
die first ? " All through the interview the
Queen watched us from her place of conceal-
ment. She never allowed her royal husband
out of her sight in those days of peril, fearing
that the dread Tai Won Kung — the former
regent — intended to destroy the King and
put his grandson, General Ye, on the throne.

As I retired from the presence of the King,
General Ye came forward leaning on the
shoulders of his jewelled attendants — a stal-
wart, bright-looking young man with the bear-
ing of a European gentleman.

The interpreter gravely informed me that
the general desired me to know that he had
arrived, which I knew by the fact that he was
standing within ten inches of me. He said
that the general hoped that my health was
very good. Then he remarked that the gen-
eral wished to inform me that he was going,
which I suspected from the circumstance that
the general had already turned his back upon
me and was walking away.

Then to the Tai Won Kung, the mightiest

07V THE GREAT HIGHWAY

figure in modern Corean history. We walked
on through the little lane which brought us to
the King, passed through a sentinelled gate,
and beheld the dwelling of the real ruler of
Corea, a low building with a gray-tiled roof
and broad veranda, reached by terraced flights
of stone steps. The old hero stood on the
threshold. He shook hands with me like an
American politician. In spite of his seventy-
eight years, his voice was trumpet-like. His
laugh was a roar, accompanied by a convulsion
of his whole body.

" We are ready to open Corea to the world,"
he said, as he ordered tea to be set before us.
" The country can no longer be kept sealed to
foreigners. But this change is too sudden.
Corea is a peculiar country. For thousands of
years our people have clung to their usages.
The customs of ages cannot be given up in a
day. The surrender to Western civilization
must be gradual. That is the way of old
Asia."

As the laughing giant sprawled back in his
chair and joked with us over the fragrant tea, it
was hard to believe that, thirty years before, he

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

had beheaded hundreds of innocent Christians
to gratify his hatred of the "Western barba-
rians," and had ordered wholesale butcheries of
his own countrymen, because they had dared to
champion the cause of modern civilization.

Poor, dreaming Corea ! Some day the Ameri-
can syndicates will get hold of her, and her
crimes against common sense will be expiated.

The King of Corea is now an Emperor.
Already the clang of the electric trolley car
and the clamor of the gold miner are heard in
his dominions. Steam railways and cotton mills
are to be built. The protection sought for by
the Emperor has been found, not in American
bayonets, but in jealous American capital. The
sober, foolish hermits listen to the footsteps of
approaching Western civilization with an un-
formed sense of terror, for the gods of eternal
calm cannot live with the god of the useful.

CHAPTER IV

A Ride with the Japanese Invaders in
Manchuria

ATTER sweeping the armed Chinese
hordes from Corea, the Emperor of
Japan sent twenty-three thousand of
his brave little men to conquer China — a rich
and venerable empire of four hundred million
inhabitants — and they did it.

The steamer that carried General Hasagawa
and his brigade of Kumomoto troops, to join
the army of invasion on the Manchurian coast
afforded endless entertainment to Frederic
Villiers and me. The queer war dances and
singing processions of the Japanese soldiers
kept the British war artist busy at his sketch-
book. Yet there was an inexpressible sense of
order and neatness in all parts of the crowded
troop ship, a feeling of law and obedience that
surpassed anything I have seen on an American
or European transport.

OAT THE GREAT HIGH WAT

When we reached the coast of Manchuria, a
bleak stretch of uninteresting shore, backed by
treeless hills and dotted here and there with
tile-roofed farmhouses, the whole Japanese
force — men, horses, ammunition, food, and
cannons — was carried to the land in little flat
skiffs. It was a marvellous feat.

But the most extraordinary thing about our
landing was the appearance of hundreds of
smiling, tall Manchurians, who waded out
in the shallow sea and helped to pull the
boats of the invaders ashore. It was not fear
that induced the pig-tailed giants to assist in
the invasion of their soil, but a mere absence
of national sentiment. We saw abundant signs
of this spirit of indifference afterward, and
that day the Japanese laughed heartily at the
lack of patriotism in Manchuria, and predicted
the swift collapse of China.

" We will take the Emperor from Peking in
chains within three months," said one of Hasa-
gawa's colonels as he rode through the mud on
the shoulders of a cheerful native, playfully
tickling the fellow's thighs with his spurs.

All along the coast could be seen the

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

steamers from which the main Japanese army,
commanded by Field-marshal Count Oyama,
had just landed, and the great fleet of warships
which had convoyed the invaders across the
Yellow Sea.

We were now in the Liatong peninsula, the
ancient home of the once dreaded hosts of
Manchurian horsemen, who imposed their own
pigtail on the Chinese as a sign of conquest.

As the field-marshal had moved on to attack
the walled city of Kinchow and the seven great
forts of Talien-wan, which lay between us and
Port Arthur, the mightiest fortress in Asia, we
were bound to follow at once and overtake him
before the fighting began.

Mounted on little ponies, borrowed from a
Japanese officer, Mr. Villiers and I rode along
the track of the advancing army, leaving our
interpreters and baggage to catch up with us
in any way they could.

All day we moved through a desolate coun-
try, almost barren of trees, with now and then
a few acres of rice or corn or millet growing in
the level ground between the rocky hills — the
well-built little houses and the tawdry Buddhist

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

shrines on the roadside deserted, windows
and doors smashed and the small gardens tram-
pled flat.

At night we could see the flames of burning
settlements, and several times we rode through
the smouldering ruins of Manchurian villages,
with none to greet us but troops of starving,
howling dogs, snapping at the legs of our
ponies, until a revolver shot would rid us of
their attentions.

The moonlight lay white on the road, so that
we were able to keep our course. The camp-
fires of the Japanese coolies — the unarmed
laborers who accompany all Japanese armies —
began to redden the way. As we hurried on
we could see the tired, barefooted men, gath-
ered around caldrons of steaming rice. Occa-
sionally we would overtake a silent squad of
soldiers pushing on towards the front.

As the night wore on and our ponies showed
signs of exhaustion, Mr. Villiers decided to join
a coolie camp for food and rest until the morn-
ing. I did not dare to stop. An artist might
tarry on the road and gather materials for his
pencil, but a correspondent, responsible for the

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

news, must not halt. The field-marshal was
ahead, and with him there might be rival corre-
spondents. Who knew what might happen
that very night ? The clatter of my pony's
hoofs seemed to intensify the loneliness of the
way as I pressed on, leaving my experienced
comrade to find sleep on the hard roadside.
An hour later I passed a dead Manchurian
peasant lying with ghastly upturned face beside
the glowing ashes of a farmhouse. The coun-
try grew more desolate. The moon sank. It
was hard to find the way. Again and again I
had to dismount and, with my bull's-eye lantern,
seek out the trampled track of the army. Once
in a while I could hear the faint clink-clank of
the Japanese soldiers working somewhere near
the road on the field telegraph line. Presently
a mounted Japanese courier dashed by me in
the darkness, shouting something I could not
understand.

Now there was no sign of life anywhere, no
friendly light, and no sound but the beating of
my tired animal's feet. My pony began to
stumble. Twice I lost the road. There was
danger that I had ridden too far and was on

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

hostile ground. The darkness prevented me
from seeing the surrounding country. I dis-
mounted and examined the road with my lan-
tern. There was not a trace of the army to be
seen. My heart sank. What with hunger and
the fatigue of my terrible ride, I was ready
to sink to the ground. I tried to mount my
pony again, but the poor beast went on his
knees.

At that moment I heard the harsh challenge
of a Japanese sentry, and with an answering
cry of "Nippon!" ("Japan!") I ran forward
to find myself on the outmost picket line of
Oyama's escort. Presently an officer appeared,
and I explained in French that I was in search
of the field-marshal. He told me that I had
ridden two miles beyond the headquarters, and
sent a soldier to lead my horse as I retraced
my way.

When I reached the farmhouse where the
field-marshal slept, I was glad to crawl under
a blanket between two hospitable staff officers
lying on a wooden couch. They sleepily in-
formed me that nothing important had hap-
pened, but that the advance brigade, which

OAT THE GREAT HIGHWAY

was ahead of us, would attack the walls of
Kinchow the next day. Thank God ! I was
not too late. In a minute I was fast asleep.

Daybreak found us in the saddle, with the
fat Japanese field-marshal, a good-natured,
kindly old politician, riding at the head of his
staff. As we moved forward, a courier arrived
from the front with news that the advance
guard was in sight of Kinchow. We spurred
our horses and pressed on with all possible
speed. At noon we halted under a huge pine
tree and lunched with the field-marshal, who
passed about a tin pail of dried peas roasted
over a fire. Each man took a handful of peas
and crunched them under his teeth.

" It is all we have," said Count Oyama,
laughingly, " but eat heartily, gentlemen ; if we
capture Kinchow, we shall fare better to-night."

A sudden sound of heavy cannon firing in
the distance interrupted the frugal meal. The
fight at Kinchow had begun. Every man
leaped to his saddle, and off we went at a
gallop. But, alas, when we reached the scene
of the battle, Kinchow had been taken. The
little walled city founded by Manchurian war-
So

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

riors three hundred years before had been
abandoned after an artillery duel of an hour,
and we rode through the dynamite-shattered
city gate to see the pavements stained with the
blood of a few women, children, and old men,
accidentally killed by shell fire, and the terri-
fied inhabitants kowtowing on their knees to
their conquerors.

We passed right through the city, and in the
plain beyond we found the reserves of General
Yamaji's division. The famous one-eyed divi-
sion commander — the most terrible personality
and the best fighter in the Japanese army —
had ordered Noghi's and Nishi's brigades to
attack the seven immense forts surrounding
Talien Bay, six miles from Kinchow, — mighty
masses of masonry, carrying forty- and fifty-ton
Krupp rifles and protected by earthworks, de-
scending at some points almost perpendicularly
into the sea from a height of three hundred
feet. These works were a triumph of German
engineering and military science — massive,
impenetrable, connected at all angles by tele-
phones, and guarded against naval attacks by
a harbor thickly strewn with torpedoes.

OAT THE GREAT HIGHWAY

Here the Japanese generals expected to find
a strong Chinese force, and they were prepared
to lose thousands of men in the battle.

There were three positions to be attacked.
On the left of the bay was Fort Jokasan, with
five five-inch rifles commanding the water ; and
a mighty redoubt, with three-inch Krupp field
pieces covering the land approach. To the
right of the bay, on the hills, were three large
forts, — Seidaisan, Cosan, and Lo-Orrian. The
first two were armed with six- and seven-inch
Krupp guns, and the third with six- and eight-
inch Creusot guns. Stretching out in the middle
of the bay was a tongue of rocky country ending
in a high hill, on which were built the three
powerful Oshozima forts, defended by six- and
seven-inch Krupp guns.

A thrill of expectant fear ran through the
army as the great guns of Jokasan were turned
upon the advancing Japanese regiment on the
left of our line. For two hours the hills shook
with the shock of the battery. All the other
guns in the chain of forts surrounding the har-
bor were sending shells wildly about the coun-
try. The regiment attacking Jokasan advanced

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

at a double-quick. Then it charged. The Jap-
anese first reached three large intrenched earth-
works, from which came a sputtering musketry
fire. Two or three quick volleys were fired, and
a few Chinese soldiers were seen dashing away
from the earthworks, stripping off their uni-
forms as they ran.

Suddenly the guns of Jokasan were silent.
The Japanese fixed bayonets and made a
charge up the huge mass of masonry and earth-
works, only to find the stronghold absolutely
vacant. The gunners had crossed the bay in
small boats, and the rest of the garrison had
sneaked away along the shore. The great fort
with its magnificent guns and enormous stores
of ammunition had been surrendered almost
without a blow. It was an astounding situation
— so inexplicable that General Yamaji sus-
pected a masked movement. But that ended
the battle for the night.

I slept that night in a Kinchow shop, lying
down in the darkness on a soft wreck of mer-
chandise, and when I awoke at daybreak I
found myself stretched out on heaps of embroid-
ered silks, with mandarins' hats and boots and

OAT THE GREAT HIGHWAY

wonderful jackets and glittering ornaments
scattered about in brilliant confusion, my pillow
being a painted wooden monster without a head.
It was like fairyland to awaken in such a scene
of shimmering splendor. But I must confess
that the most glorious thing in that room was a
plain tin of Chicago corned beef. Such is the
coarse nature of a war correspondent after a
forced march on dried peas and water.

All night Noghi's brigade had waited at the
approach to the three Oshozima forts. Here
great slaughter was expected. When there was
light enough to move, the advance began across
a wrinkled, stony valley. A terrific sound of
gongs and drums was heard in the forts, and
the brigade halted for a few minutes. The fact
was that the Chinese had abandoned Oshozima
during the night. They had sent back forty or
fifty soldiers to secure the personal property of
the officers. These men were surprised by the
Japanese, and hoping to frighten the enemy
and gain time, they were pounding the alarm
apparatus in the forts. The Japanese line
swept straight up the giant escarpments, but
not a gun was fired. They began to realize

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

that there was no enemy before them. Here
and there they could see a Chinaman skulking
away.

Then the great batteries of Lo-Orisan, on the
right side of the bay, began to pour shells into
Oshozima. Nishi's brigade boldly advanced
against the three forts. For three hours there
was a deafening cannonade. We could see the
shells from the Creusot rifles exploding all along
the hillside. But every shell went wide of the
mark. The Chinese gunners ran wildly up and
down behind the ramparts of the forts. When
the Japanese skirmish line got within range,
and their bullets began to patter over the
Chinese guns, the garrison of the fort ran down
the hillsides and fled toward Port Arthur.

So the seven great modern strongholds of
Talien-Wan fell into the hands of Japan. By
nine o'clock in the morning all was over, and a
position which two regiments might have held
against a whole army was given up.

As the Japanese troops were advancing
against Oshozima, I rode with General Yamaji
and his staff into one of the smaller entrenched
works on the plain below. A Chinese shell,

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

exploding near me, wounded my horse and
threw me to the ground, breaking one of my
ribs and injuring my knee. In that condition
I had to ride back to Kinchow. The wounds
were not serious, but the bandages which the
Japanese surgeons applied were fearfully im-
pressive, and when Mr. Villiers arrived that
night — after losing his horse and walking
thirty miles over the hills to find me swathed
like a hero — he looked absolutely envious.

The jolly old field-marshal gave the pawn-
shop of Kinchow to Mr. Villiers and myself as
a residence. It was an interesting place. The
Chinese troops had looted the storerooms before
they retired from the city, and we found furs
and costly silk robes and gold and silver orna-
ments scattered about on the ground in the
courtyard, with rare old enamelled head-dresses,
chains, and chatelaines — treasures of the local
aristocracy — tangled up in piles of silver
bracelets.

The next day, the white-bearded, blue-clad
giant who owned the place returned and knelt
down to thank us for letting him sit down in
his own house. We gave him a bottle of cham-

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

pagne, which the field-marshal had sent to us
with a pair of live chickens. The old Manchu-
rian sniffed at the foaming wine and eyed us
suspiciously. Were we trying to poison him ?
He raised the cup again and again to his lips,
shivered and set it down without tasting.
Then he swallowed the cupful and waited for
the sensation. His dark eyes rolled upward
and his face softened. An expression of inef-
fable peace came into his aged countenance.
Putting the bottle to his lips, he drained it,
smacked his lips, and crossed his bony hands on
his stomach contentedly. His eyes brightened,
his cheeks grew rosy. Death had no terrors
now.

" Where do you get it ? " he said to our
interpreter.

" In France."

" How far away is that country ? How long
does it take to get there ? "

Two days later, we took a walk on top of the
great wall that ran around the stricken town and
saw a sight of horror.

Seven women and three little girls were
dragged out of a well in an old garden, and laid

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

stiff and dripping among the faded flowers and
drifting leaves. They had drowned themselves
when the Japanese began to shell the place,
fearing the fate that befalls women after Asiatic
victories.

There they lay, entwined together in a last
embrace, a silent memorial of the virtue of
Manchurian women. Four were the wives
of prominent men; the others were their
daughters and servants.

The victorious army went rumbling on
through the streets — horses, men, baggage
carts, cannon — and the brilliant pageantry of
the field-marshal's staff swept around the cor-
ner. But none saw the ten stark figures in the
high-walled Chinese garden ; none save a group
of tearful men, too cowardly to fight in defence
of their homes, and the two pitying war corre-
spondents on the city wall.

Yet Kinchow was once the home of chivalry
and heroism. Here the hereditary knights of
Manchu reared the walls of a city three hun-
dred years ago, and planted their banners. But
in the principal temple, before the forsaken
gods of Manchuria, where countless warriors

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

had sworn allegiance to their country, a Chi-
nese soldier, in full uniform, committed suicide
while the Japanese army was entering the city.

Who can explain this craven instinct in a
once valorous race ? It is not hard to under-
stand how men can have political loyalty and
patriotism educated out of them; but surely
women, who prized their honor, and their hus-
bands' honor, more than their lives, were worth
dying for in battle.

After a few days' rest we moved on toward
Port Arthur. The battery of thirty siege guns
was still floundering on the roads in the rear,
but Hasagawa's brigade of Kumomoto men had
caught up with the field-marshal, and the whole
army of invasion was assembled for the final
stroke — about twenty-three thousand men, and
forty-eight guns.

While Oyama's army moved forward across
the rough country, the main Japanese fleet, com-
manded by Admiral Ito, steamed slowly along
the peninsular coast, constantly exchanging
communications with the field-marshal.

As the splendid columns marched through
the valleys and over the hills, now wading in the

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

streams, and now sprawling painfully among
loose, jagged rocks, or plodding heavily in drift-
ing sand, the wonderful discipline and endurance
of the Japanese soldiery displayed itself. No
flags, no music, no pomp ; a silent, businesslike
organization, magnificently equipped and offi-
cered, with one common purpose uniting thou-
sands of men — the glory of Japan.

Mr. Villiers and I had abandoned the field-
marshal's headquarters and rode with General
Yamaji, the one-eyed, — a coarse, reticent, sinister
man, demoniac in his energy and temperament,
but modest, and the finest soldier in the East.
It was a hard march, with little food, and, at
times, no water. When our vanguard ap-
proached the scene of the coming battle, a part
of the Chinese garrison advanced out of Port
Arthur and surprised a small body of Japanese
cavalry scouts in the depth between the hills
which adjoins the valley leading to Port Arthur.
I arrived at the front just in time to see Nishi's
brigade send flanking columns around the hill to
cut off the Chinese.

I could see the Chinese advancing in three
columns from the southwest and northwest. It

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

was a brilliant procession of flags and banners.
The sound of gongs and squeaking trumpets
came faintly up from the moving pageant.

Away to the left were the Japanese cavalry-
men in a cloud of dust, cutting their way back
on the main road through the line of tossing red-
and-white standards. The brave little scouts
had dismounted and were firing carbine volleys,
while a few squads of Japanese infantrymen
were creeping to the rescue and keeping up a
brisk peppering. There were at least fifteen
hundred Chinamen in the three columns.

Suddenly the enemy caught sight of our rapid
flank movement and fled. I rode down the main
road and joined the scouts as the Chinese force
disappeared through the hills. The Japanese
had lost eight men in the fight, and forty-two
were wounded. The Japanese dead lay on the
roadside, headless and mutilated. Several
bodies were without hands ; two had been
butchered like sheep. It was this mutilation of
their dead which the Japanese afterward cited
as a partial justification of the slaughter of
unarmed men at Port Arthur.

Accompanied by the correspondent of the

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

London Times, I rode the next day with a re-
connoitring party into the wide valley that leads
to Port Arthur. We left our main escort con-
cealed behind a grove of trees, and moved
cautiously toward the distant cannon-crowned
hills, the little group of Japanese officers carry-
ing their revolvers in their hands. A lieutenant
and sergeant rode ahead. Just as we came to a
rising in the ground there was a sudden blaze of
rifle fire and the lieutenant dashed back alone.
The Chinese pickets had wounded and captured
the sergeant. We afterward heard that the
poor fellow was crucified alive in Port Arthur.

" Run for your lives ! " shrieked the colonel
commanding our party, as he dug the spurs into
his horse.

We retreated to a grassy knoll and watched
the Chinese sharpshooters creeping here and
there in an attempt to surround us. But they
were too cowardly to close in. Presently we
saw a cloud of dust sweeping down through the
head of the valley from which we came, and in
a few minutes a battalion of Japanese infantry
came to our rescue, Mr. Villiers, my gallant
camp comrade, riding in front.

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

A line of Japanese skirmishers drove the
enemy back to a slope in front of Port Arthur,
where we could see them waving their gorgeous
banners and dragging a field-gun into position.

Towering upon the hills behind and to the left
of them was a multitude of forts, but not a can-
non was fired. The hilltops on the west side of
the valley were dotted with Chinese sentinels,
while squads of watchful Japanese soldiers were
grouped on the opposite heights. Horsemen
were scouring the ravines and roads in all direc-
tions, to guard against a surprise. There was a
touch of Indian fighting in the scene.

CHAPTER V

Battle and Massacre of Port Arthur

ALL was ready for the battle of Port
Arthur, and the Japanese army was
already moving through the night into
position for an attack upon the sixteen great
modern forts at daybreak.

The little group of saddle-weary foreign cor-
respondents stood around a heap of blazing
wood while their horses were being fed by the
excited coolies. The wide valley flamed and
roared with the camp-fires of the invading host,
and thousands of dust-covered coolies moved in
the darkness with the ammunition and food. I
anxiously watched a small man pacing slowly
before a smouldering fire around which were
gathered a few whispering staff- officers. His
head was bowed, and his hands were locked
behind his back as he moved. It was General
Yamaji, the terrible little division commander
— he who deliberately plucked out his own eye

THE GREAT HIGHWAY

at school to show his comrades that he was not
a coward. Our fate depended upon this man,
for he was the real general of the attacking
forces, the stout old field-marshal being a politi-
cal rather than a military element in the
situation.

Yamaji turned away from the fire, and with a
surly nod of the head to his officers mounted
his horse. The staff followed his example. I
swung myself into the saddle and joined the
general as he pushed forward with the right
wing of the army across the head of the valley
and around the face of the western hills, in
preparation for the turning movement which
was to be the key of the battle.

We were carried along in the darkness with
a horrible sense of universal motion, on the
edges of giant earth seams and steep precipices,
with the artillery clanging and grinding, and
the ponderous siege batteries groaning over the
loose stones in the dry river beds ; horses
plunging and stumbling, with mountain guns
strapped on their backs ; the swift clatter of
the cavalry sweeping backward and forward
with news of the enemy, the steady tramp and

OAT THE GREAT HIGH WAT

murmur of the infantry ; the crawling lines of
coolies attending the fighting men; now and
then a horse and rider rolling down over the
rocks ; frightened steeds shying at camp-fires ;
a procession of ammunition boxes carried along
like black coffins ; occasionally a glimpse of a
ravine with rivers of bayonets gleaming at the
bottom of it ; anxious and hungry skirmishers
creeping on their bellies along the ridges of the
distant peaks — and yet, a curious hush over
it all — the sense of a secret to be kept.

Not a sign of a flag, the roll of a drum, nor
the note of a bugle; nothing but the rush of
human feet, the beat of hoofs, the crunching of
wheels, and the clank of cold steel.

It made a man grow cold to be near Yamaji
and see the gleam in that one eye. There were
sounds of voices around him as the swift mes-
sengers came and went in the gloom, but it was
a strange babble of Asiatic accents, falling
weirdly upon the ears of a New York news-
paper writer, borne along atomlike in that
human torrent.

If ever a man can realize the insignificance of
the individual compared with the force of organ-

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

ized society, if ever there can be borne in upon
his understanding the fact that his true measure
in the world is the five or six feet that span
the length of his grave, if ever he can be over-
whelmed by a sense of loneliness in the midst of
a multitude, it should be in such a scene as this.

Mile after mile we rode in the dark, through
valleys and over hills ; hour after hour the
eager troops moved with us, and just as the
faint, cold light appeared in the eastern sky, we
reached the head of the right wing of the army,
where Yamaji dismounted and was greeted
by Noghi.

We climbed to the top of a rocky peak, and
saw before us, on a hill, Isuyama, the triple
fort which was the key of the fight. It was
an oblong quadrangle, with high, thick earthen
walls, connected by a strong shelter wall with
a still larger and stronger square fort on
higher ground, above which ran another wall
to a great round redoubt commanding the
valley and town of Port Arthur.

Shut in by hills on all sides, we could see
nothing but the triple fort with its lines of
gay flags, for we had made a detour of eight

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

miles in order to surprise the Chinese by a
western attack, instead of advancing straight
down the valley. To the left were our moun-
tain batteries, stealthily planted on a ridge the
day before.

Below and in front of us was a dark line
of Japanese infantry kneeling in a ploughed
field, waiting for light enough to storm Isu-
yama, and in the gully to our right was another
battalion of bayonets ready for the signal.
Thousands of men were massed in the rear.

Everything was silent and motionless in
the dawning light. Yamaji lifted his cap and
made a signal. The Japanese mountain bat-
teries began to play upon Isuyama and the
kneeling line in the field below us fired volley
after volley at the tops of the rough, brown
walls.

Instantly the battlements were crowded with
warriors in red, yellow, blue, and green, and
the guns of the triple fort seemed to cover
the hillside with flame and smoke. The Chinese
had five-inch Krupp rifles, and nine-inch mortars
with auxiliary batteries of revolving and quick-
firing guns.

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

Shells began to drop from all sides. Even
the great sea forts, with their mighty twelve-
inch rifles, and all the forts along the valley
of Port Arthur, aimed over the hills at us;
for Isuyama was the key and, once it should
fall, the whole left flank of the Chinese would
be exposed. The taking of the triple fort
was to be a signal to the rest of the Japan-
ese forces. We could not see the giant forts
in the distance, but we could hear the scream-
ing of their shells overhead.

As the Chinese batteries splintered the
hillside and sent clouds of earth up out of
the ploughed ground, the Japanese line kneel-
ing at the base of the slope in front of
Isuyama stood up and advanced in the teeth
of the guns, firing continuously as they went.
The shock of the cannon explosions made
the banners on the walls of the three forts
dance. The Chinese stuck to their guns. On,
on, pressed the slender, dark line, with trails
of fire and smoke running up and down the
ranks. The Japanese soldiers moved as pre-
cisely as though they were on parade. Then the
battalion waiting in the ravine moved forward

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

in column formation on the right, to attack
the side of the nearest fort. As the thin
skirmish line reached the steep scarp in
front of the thundering walls, it suddenly
swung around and joined the column on the
right, and the united battalions, with fixed
bayonets, rushed up the steep slope toward
the side wall, while the Chinese shells tore
gaps in their ranks.

By this time a mountain battery had been
carried up on the dizzy ridge where Yamaji
stood, the soldiers pressing their bodies against
the horses to keep them from slipping; and
five minutes afterward six guns were dropping
shells inside of the first fort. The Chinese
gunners leaped backward from their batteries.

With a ringing yell the Japanese dashed
up to the fort and scaled the ramparts by
sticking bayonets in the earthwork, shooting
and bayoneting the garrison, and chasing the
enemy along the connecting walls.

A cheer went up from the hills and valleys
as the victorious troops pushed on into the
second fort, and finally captured the great
redoubt on top of the hill, while the fugitive

100

OAT THE GREAT HIGHWAY

Chinese scrambled down into the valley on
the other side.

Once in the redoubt the whole battlefield
lay stretched before us, with its miles of rolling
smoke and roaring guns. At the head of the
valley was the comfortable old field-marshal
and the reserve centre, with its crashing field-
guns and siege battery. We were on the right
of the main valley. On the left of the valley,
just opposite to our position, were seven strong
Chinese forts. The three looking north were
the Shoju forts, while the four facing westward
were the Nerio or "Two Dragon" forts. At
the foot of the valley was the town of Port
Arthur, spread about the enclosed harbor and,
beyond it, towering up on the sea ridge, were
six immense modern forts, powerful masses
of masonry, standing alone on separate hill-
tops, shielded by mighty earthworks, and
armed with the heaviest and newest rifles
and mortars. No fleet in the world would
have dared to attack such a position from
the sea. One of these sea forts was Ogunsan.
It stood four hundred and fifty feet above the
town. To the east of it were the Lo-Leshi

101

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

forts. The other three sea forts were on a
tiny peninsula to the west of the harbor, and
were known as the Manjuyama forts. Hasa-
gawa's brigade had moved along the seacoast
and was attacking the Shoju and Nerio forts
on their eastern sides and harassing the Lo-
Leshi forts on the coast.

When we entered the redoubt overlooking
this vast scene of conflict, Yamaji's officers
tore the white canvas side from a Chinese
tent, and, cutting a disk from a red Chinese
banner, made a rude Japanese flag and hoisted
it on a Manchurian lance. The signal of vic-
tory could be seen from every fort. Instantly
the redoubt became an artillery target. The
ground about it was shaken by the explosion
of shells. The air was filled with screaming
sounds as great projectiles from the sea forts
passed overhead.

But Yamaji stood out on the wall of the
redoubt in plain sight, as silent and unmoved
as a carved image, while showers of shattered
rock and earth fell about him. It was a face
to study — cold, stoical, Asiatic. The battle
seemed to bore him ; it was too easy. There

102

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

was not enough bloodshed. His one eye
searched the scene like the eye of a machine.
Once he smiled and showed his yellow teeth —
a ghastly smile.

Yet only a few days before I saw Yamaji
release the little singing birds found in the
Talien-Wan forts lest they might starve in
their cages — so strangely is mercy and cruelty
compounded in the human heart.

The Japanese field and siege guns were
pounding away at the seven forts on the other
side of the valley, and Yamaji's mountain
batteries joined them. It was a colossal duel
of war enginery. Through the great arches
of fire and smoke came shrieking shells and
the close confidential hum of rifle bullets at
one's ear — those invisible messengers of death
which seem to speak to each man separately.

The arsenal in Port Arthur had caught
fire and was ripping, roaring, and rattling,
vomiting flame and smoke like a volcano, as
half an acre of massed shells and cartridges
exploded. Miles and miles of red and white
banners fluttered on the Chinese walls stretched
between the seven forts on the opposite ridge.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

We could see the Manchurian warriors rushing
along these walls, and hear the din of their
gongs and trumpets. Two or three Chinese
battalions with enormous flags were stationed
on the lower hills, out of reach of the Japan-
ese artillery fire, and in a position to resist
Yamaji, should he cross the valley. The
Shoju and Nerio forts were the prey of Hasa-
gawa, who charged up from the eastern valley,
taking advantage of earth seams and irregu-
larities in the ground. Two torpedo mines
were exploded in front of his lines, but the
Chinese touched the keys too soon. All over
the valley were sunken mines connected by
wires with the walled camps and forts, but
somehow the enemy failed to use them.

Just as the front rank of Hasagawa's brigade
was dashing up to the Shoju forts, a Japanese
shell set one of them on fire, and with a roar
and shock that stopped the battle for a moment,
the shells for the heavy guns, piled on the
floor of the fort, exploded. The Chinese
garrison fled over the ridges, and Hasagawa's
men came sweeping around the rough hill to
find the fort a mass of flames, heaving and

104

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

reeling as the fire reached additional stores
of shells. That ended all hope of defending
the seven forts. The Chinese abandoned one
fort after the other, and retreated. Hasagawa
was in possession of the Shoju and Nerio
hills.

But the most dramatic scene in the battle
was yet to come. After taking Isuyama,
Yamaji's infantry had clambered down the
precipitous face of the bluff into the valley,
and, having driven the Chinese out of a forti-
fied barrack, were huddled behind the huge
structure. Beyond this lay the smooth naval
parade-ground of Port Arthur, and on the
other side of it, a shallow stream with a long,
narrow, wooden bridge on stilts. At the other
end of the bridge were rifle-pits filled with
Chinese infantry, defending a road leading
into the town between two small hills, on which
were three field-guns manned by the only good
gunners on the Chinese side.

Hasagawa had captured one side of the
valley. Yamaji was in possession of the other
side. The town of Port Arthur had yet to
be taken. Yamaji was nervous and jealous.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

It was plain that unless his troops moved
quickly, Hasagawa, the only general outside
of his division, might have the honor of taking
the town itself and the colossal Ogunsan fort,
the monarch of the coast.

Every time Yamaji's men attempted to move
away from the cover of the barrack walls the
Chinese riflemen in the pits beyond the bridge
swept the smooth parade-ground with steady
volleys from Winchester repeating rifles. Again
and again the Japanese started out, only to
retreat before the hail of bullets.

Yamaji ground his teeth. His face was livid
with rage. In vain his staff officers shouted
from the redoubt to the troops below to make
a charge across the bridge. In vain the gen-
eral made fierce gestures. The Japanese had
struck good Chinese fighting men for the first
time since Tatsumi's troops stormed the north-
west heights of Ping Yang.

The little battery on the hill, commanding
the bridge and the road to the town, was
barking and playing the mischief with the
Japanese sharpshooters on the walls of the
barracks. Occasionally the great guns of

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

Ogunsan spoke, but the shells went far and
wide. The shrill rattle of distant musketry
could be heard over the hills where Hasagawa's
men were slaughtering the retreating garrisons
of the seven forts. Thousands of the enemy
were trying to escape eastward. Troops of
plumed Manchurians on white horses swept
away through the ravines.

From the torn ramparts of the redoubt we
could see a line of eight or nine Japanese war-
ships stretched parallel with the coast, with
columns of spray jetting up from the badly
aimed shells of the sea forts. Torpedo boats
darted about the entrance of the harbor, firing
upon junks loaded with fugitive inhabitants.

Yamaji stood twitching his hands murderously,
and glaring through his one eye at the regi-
ment skulking behind the barrack below. No
words can describe the fury of that fearful
countenance.

The Japanese army had actually been halted
by Chinamen at the threshold of Port Arthur !
A half-mile more and the Chinese Empire
would be conquered !

The crouching regiment suddenly sent out

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

skirmish lines to the right and left, and these,
gaining the shelter of low walls on the edges
of the drill-ground, delivered a hot fire into the
flanks of the Chinese rifle-pits. A battalion
knelt in a semicircle on a plateau in the rear of
the barrack and sent volley after volley against
the stubborn defenders of the road.

Under the cover of this fire a small column
dashed over the bullet-swept space, crossed the
bridge, drove the Chinese sharpshooters out of
their intrenchments, and seized the battery on
the hill behind. At the same time the field-
marshal ordered the reserve centre to move
down the valley from the village of Suishiyeh,
and thousands of men came rushing along the
roads behind the troops already pressing into
the doomed town.

At this point I left Yamaji, and climbing down
the face of the bluff into the valley, made my
way across the drill-ground and the bridge to
the top of a hill on the edge of the town. Here
I found the British and American military at-
tached. We watched the vanguard of Japan as
it entered Port Arthur, firing volleys through
the town as it advanced.

1 08

OAT THE GREAT HIGHWAY

Not a shot was fired in reply. Even Ogun-
san was silent and deserted. The Chinese gar-
rison had escaped. The frightened inhabitants
cowered in the streets.

Then began the meaningless and unnecessary
massacre which horrified the civilized world and
robbed the Japanese victory of its dignity. Up
to that time there was not a stain on the Japa-
nese flag.

As the triumphant troops poured into Port
Arthur they saw the heads of their slain com-
rades hanging by cords, with the noses and
ears shorn off. There was a rude arch at the
entrance to the town decorated with these bloody
trophies. It may have been this sight which
roused the blood of the conquerors, and ban-
ished humanity and mercy from their hearts ;
or it may have been mere lust of slaughter —
the world can judge for itself. But the Japa-

nese killed everything they saw.

Unarmed men, kneeling in the streets and
begging for life, were shot, bayoneted, or be-
headed. The town was sacked from end to
end, and the inhabitants were butchered in their
own houses.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

A procession of ponies, donkeys, and camels
went out of the western side of Port Arthur
with swarms of terrified men and children.
The fugitives waded across a shallow inlet,
shivering and stumbling in the icy water. A
company of infantry was drawn up at the head
of the inlet, and poured steady volleys at the
dripping victims ; but not a bullet hit its mark.

The last to cross the inlet were two men.
One of them led two small children. As they
staggered out on the opposite shore a squadron
of cavalry rode up and cut down one of the
men. The other man and the children retreated
into the water and were shot like dogs.

All along the streets we could see the plead-
ing storekeepers shot and sabred. Doors were
broken down and windows torn out.

The sound of music — the first we had heard
since the invasion began — drew us back to the
drill-ground, where all the Japanese generals
were assembled to congratulate the field-mar-
shal— all save Noghi, who was pursuing the
enemy among the hills. What cheering and
handshaking ! What solemn strains from the
band! And all the while we could hear the

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

rattle of volleys in the streets of Port Arthur,
and knew that the helpless people were being
slain in cold blood, and their homes pillaged.

That was the coldest night we had known.
The thermometer suddenly went down to
twenty degrees above zero. I found my way
up the valley to Suishiyeh, although I was so
tired that I twice had to lie down on the
roadside. There was nothing to eat in the
little house where I slept, but the field-mar-
shal sent me a bottle of Burgundy. For two
weeks I had not taken my boots off.

In the morning I walked into Port Arthur
with the correspondent of the London Times.
The scenes in the streets were heartrending.
Everywhere we saw bodies torn and mangled,
as if by wild beasts. Dogs were whimpering
over the frozen corpses of their masters. The
victims were mostly shopkeepers. Nowhere
the trace of a weapon, nowhere a sign of re-
sistance. It was a sight that would damn the
fairest nation on earth.

There was one trembling old woman, and
only one, in that great scene of carnage,
her wrinkled face quivering with fear, and her

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

limbs trembling as she wandered among the
slain. Where was she to go ? What was
she to do ? All the men were killed, all the
women were off in the frozen hills, and yet
not an eye of pity was turned upon her, but
she was jostled and laughed at until she turned
down a blood-stained alley, to see God knows
what new horror.

Port Arthur was a rambling town of small
dwellings and shops which grew up about the
great modern Chinese naval depot, with its
wonderful dry-dock, the largest in Asia.

When Oyama advanced from Kinchow, his
chief of staff, Major Cameo, sent a captured
spy into Port Arthur with the following letter
addressed to General Ju, the Chinese com-
mander who fled with his army from Talien-
Wan: —

" To HIS EXCELLENCY, GENERAL Ju : —

" I am familiar with your great reputation, but
I am sorry I have never met you. For many
years I was military attache at Peking, and I
thought to make your acquaintance. I regret
that I must now meet you in the field.

" Our army has taken Kinchow, and I learn

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that your Excellency, being unable to defend
that city, retreated to Port Arthur. But
this is not your fault — rather the fortune of
war.

" The soldiers you command are all newly re-
cruited, and their number is small. On the
other hand, our troops have had many years
of thorough training, and are brave in battle.
They are not to be compared to yours. Our
numbers are also superior to yours. We have
about fifty thousand men.

" We are about to march on Port Arthur. It
is not necessary to predict the result, or say
which side will have the victory. Your troops
were defeated in the first battle at Asan. They
were also vanquished for a second time at Ping
Yang, and for a third time at the Yalu River.
Your forces were also defeated on the sea. In-
deed, you have not had a victory.

"This being the case, the will of Heaven seems
to be plain. Your Excellency no doubt intends
to defend Port Arthur, but it will be useless to
attempt it. Our army is fighting for humanity
and right, and if any resist us, they will be de-
stroyed ; but if any one throws away his weapon,
he will be treated kindly, and according to his
rank.

" Will your Excellency believe my word and
surrender to us ? This is not only the happiest

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

course for your Excellency personally, but the
best and wisest course for your nation.

" Notwithstanding the fact that I have not
made your acquaintance, I take the liberty of
letting your Excellency know the facts.

" CAMEO.
"Nov. 15, 1894."

It is not necessary to describe in detail the
pitiless murder of two thousand unarmed in-
habitants of Port Arthur which gave the lie to
this official promise of Japan. Whatever I may
have written of that three days' slaughter at a
time when Japan was seeking admission to the
family of civilized nations, it is only just to say
that the massacre at Port Arthur was the only
lapse of the Japanese from the usages of
humane warfare. A witness for civilization, I
could not remain silent in the presence of such
a crime. The humanity and self-control of the
Japanese soldiery during the historic march of
the allied nations to Peking, seven years later,
— notwithstanding the cruelty and barbarism of
some of the European troops, — have redeemed
Japan in the eyes of history. The Japanese
have demonstrated to the world that their civili-
zation is substantial.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

But even in the delirium of Port Arthur, not
a Chinese woman was harmed — yes, one, —
but she was killed by a volley directed against
men. Women were fired at as they fled when
the troops entered the town, but it was impossi-
ble to distinguish men from women in that fly-
ing rabble.

After crossing the Yellow Sea to Japan, and
sending the story of Port Arthur to the New
York World — whose war correspondent I was
— I went to Tokio to attend the national cele-
bration of the Japanese victories. The scene in
Uyeno Park was one of strange and never-to-be-
forgotten beauty. It was said that four hun-
dred thousand persons were gathered together
in that great festival.

Fantastic maskers danced under the shadows
of gnarled and twisted pines ; thrilling sounds
of singing filled the air, and from a thick grove
came the long, sweet booming of a hidden bell.

Old Japan, with her top-knotted men and
her child-women — graceful, poetic, innocent
Japan — rustled and glided about in waves of

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

relationship to the individual, and manifesting
itself in an endless system of squeezing, through
the doddering old mandarins and their brutal
retainers. To die for such a flag seemed as
foolish as the tears of Mark Twain at the grave
of Adam. The proclamation of the Chinese
Emperor, issued at the most critical stage of
the struggle, called upon the inhabitants of
Manchuria to resist the invaders — not because
their own manhood and honor would be stained
by the conquest of their soil, not because their
homes were threatened, not because they were
to be enslaved by a foreign government, but
for the reason that the tombs of the Emperor's
ancestors at Moukden were in danger of dese-
cration.

To the Japanese soldier, the flag of Japan
stood for his own honor. His patriotism was
simply an extension of his personal pride.
Deep in his heart was the feeling that he who
served Japan best, served God and the world
best. It was that sentiment, that conviction,
which developed the soldier spirit.

No man who has seen the two races in the
field can doubt that the Chinese and Japanese

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

are equally contemptuous of death. They
are all fatalists. But the cold, passionless,
abstruse Chinese system of civilization, the
mysticism surrounding the throne, the remote-
ness of the imperial person from all under-
standable human connection with its subjects,
has gradually denationalized China, and robbed
the Chinese of any personal inspiration to shed
their blood for the sake of their soil.

Since the battles of Port Arthur and Wei-
Hai-Wei, the " Boxer movement " has called the
attention of statesmen to the fact that a national
sentiment is springing up in China, not because
of the imperial government, but in spite of it.

And it may be that after the Chinese have
learned to love China well enough to fight for
her, they may love her enough to purge her of
cruelty, and corruption, and idle scholastic
vanity — love her enough to want to see her
honored among the nations for her humanity
and usefulness.

119

CHAPTER VI

The Avatar of Count Tolstoy

WHILE I was investigating the per-
secution of the Jews in Russia for
the New York Herald, and trying
to keep the Emperor's busy police from pene-
trating the secret of my mission, a letter from
James Gordon Bennett directed me to find
Count Tolstoy, and learn whether his real views
of modern marriage were presented in "The
Kreutzer Sonata," the extraordinary book which
was then attracting attention throughout the
civilized world.

A few hours' railway journey from St. Peters-
burg to Tula, and a dashing ride in a three-
horse sleigh, through a snowstorm, brought me
to Yasnia Poliana, the little village in the heart
of European Russia, where the great novelist

1 20

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

dwelt with his wife and children, among the
rough peasants.

Altogether a strong face. A massive, wrin-
kled brow ; blue-gray eyes, able to see the inside
and outside of a man at once ; a powerful, flat-
nostrilled nose, jutting between high cheek
bones ; a mouth made for pity ; a vast gray
beard ; a giant body clad in a coarse peasant's
dress, gathered in at the waist under a stout
leather belt; feet shod in shoes made by the
brown, sinewy hands of the wearer.

Such was Count Lyoff Tolstoy, the god of
Russian literature, as I found him in the sav-
agely bare house where his greatest novels
were written.

It was all so strange, — and it was stranger
still to an American writer, fresh from hard-
headed London, Paris, and New York, — to sit
with the great master in this house, whose doors
were never closed to the hungry or weary,
whose table was always spread, whose owner
called every wandering pilgrim a brother.

That night, as I lay in the Count's little iron
cot, among his books, I heard the clock strike
twelve, and it would not have surprised me if

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the clock had struck thirteen, so unusual were
the ways of that wonderful place.

At the rough little table on which " War and
Peace" and "Anna Karenina" were penned, I
sat for hours with Count Tolstoy, struggling
against the force of his sweeping condemnations
of marriage as it is and not as it ought to be.
And then I came to know how the husband of
a high-souled, loving woman and the father of
thirteen children came to write that awful pro-
test against married life in the nineteenth
century.

When the wild Count was married, nearly
thirty years before, his wife was a mere child.
It was this young girl — a slender beauty of
good family and fine breeding — who for years
strangled the cynicism that lurked in the novel-
ist's ink bottle. When he was writing "War
and Peace" she read his manuscript, page by
page, and pleaded with him to strike bitter and
fierce things out of his work, so that youth and
innocence might share his beautiful thoughts
without having to look into unveiled depths of
loathsomeness. No man had a happier life,
and no man owed more to marriage. But for

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

the influence of this young wife, the pages of
his greatest novels might have been spoiled by
the brutalities which she persuaded him to
abandon.

These things the Count confessed with
almost boyish frankness. And yet, so complex
is human nature and the workings of the human
mind, that no man in the whole range of
literature has held bitterer views of the influ-
ence of women upon the higher nature of men.
As I saw these two sitting together, after thirty
years of unbroken love and sympathy, it was
hard to believe that I was talking to the author
of the " Kreutzer Sonata."

Ten years before I went to Yasnia Poliana,
Count Tolstoy was reading the story of the
execution of a group of officers who planned
the liberation of the serfs under Nicholas I.,
when he was seized with a longing to write a
romance on the subject that would stir the
world.

" But to write such a story I must learn the
Russian language more thoroughly," he said to
the Countess. " The great ethical truths of the
world must be repeated in a new dialect every

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

generation. I will go out on the road that runs
past our house and talk to the pilgrims who are
going to the holy places in Moscow. I will write
down every new word that has any new mean-
ing to me. I must learn to write as the peas-
ants speak. I must learn to think as the
peasants think."

So the Count went out on the highway, and
day after day he wandered along with the
hungry pilgrims and studied the human soul
through the human tongue. Beneath the rags
and dirt and physical suffering of the pilgrims
his eagle eyes discerned a quiet contentment
and sense of happiness that troubled him.

" How is it," he would say to the Countess,
as he returned at nightfall dusty and bronzed
by the weather, " how is it that these people
live without money and are happy ? I cannot
understand it."

As the weeks grew into months the lines
on the novelist's forehead wore deeper and his
eyes became sadder.

" No, I can't understand it," he would say.
" These peasants and pilgrims are happy, really
happy. It is no delusion. They know what

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Count Tolstoy

07V THE GREAT HIGHWAY

it is to live. And yet we, who have money and
everything that education can give us, are with-
out this peace."

Then the avatar occurred. The soul of the
romancist and poet died, and the soul of the
reformer and prophet was born.

"It is religion," he cried. "The Church,
the blessed Church gives them peace. They
care nothing for hunger and nakedness and
homelessness when they feel the consolations
of true faith. We alone are living without real
religion. That is why we cannot understand
the happiness of the pilgrims. We are wasting
ourselves on empty luxuries."

The Count began to go to church. For days
at a time he would pray before the holy ikons.
Sometimes prostrating himself face downward
for hours on the cold pavement. By fasting,
meditation, and appeal he sought heaven. He
sternly trampled his grand artist nature under
foot.

At this time the reign of Alexander II.
ended in a spray of blood, and his stolid son
ascended the throne. The liberal epoch had
closed. Tolstoy was present in the church of

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the Kremlin when Alexander III. was crowned,
and heard the multitude swear the oath of
allegiance. Human eyes never looked upon
a more brilliant spectacle than that which sur-
rounded the new emperor, as, with uplifted
hand and streaming eyes, he repeated the
solemn coronation vows. Tolstoy returned to
his Moscow residence in a profound fit of sad-
ness. The Countess was unable to understand
the cause of his new unrest, and he was too
much absorbed in his own thoughts to offer
any explanation. A great light was dawning
in his soul. Finally the Count opened his
Bible, and turning to the Sermon on the Mount
he came to this passage : —

" But I say unto you, swear not at all ;
neither by Heaven, for it is God's throne ;
nor by the earth, for it is His footstool ; neither
by Jerusalem, for it is the city of the great
King. Neither shalt thou swear by thy head,
because thou canst not make one hair white
or black. But let your communication be yea,
yea; nay, nay: for whatsoever is more than
these cometh of evil."

The oath in the great cathedral, the uplifted

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

hands, the open Bible, the droning voice of the
richly clad priest, the smoke of incense floating
upward among the ancient banners, the gleam-
ing malachite and gold — the whole scene was
in his mind. The brilliant aristocrat of Rus-
sian literature tripped over a verse in the New
Testament and arose from the ground a peas-
ant prophet, crying out, in a wilderness of
formalism, that the Christianity of the nine-
teenth century had rejected Christ. In an
instant the Greek church for him had crumbled
into dust.

" The Church is a false teacher," he said to
the Countess. " I have with my own eyes seen
its priests administering an oath upon the very
scriptures that forbid oaths. I will trust the
Church no more. I must read the gospels for
myself."

A few lines further on Tolstoy read aloud :
" But I say unto you that ye resist not evil ; but
whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek,
turn to him the other also."

That was a moment of soul tempest. The
old familiar Bible words were enchanted.

"Then what is the meaning of these hun-

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

dreds of thousands of soldiers wearing the
uniform of the Czar, blessed by the Church,
night and morning, and trained to kill their
fellow-men," he cried. " If it is wrong to re-
sist evil, then it is wrong to arm men with
deadly weapons and turn the world into a
military camp. Swear not ! Resist not evil !
How cruelly the Church has blinded men to
the real teachings of Christ. Away with it ! "

Day after day Tolstoy studied the New
Testament. As he read on, his conviction
that the words of Christ were to be taken
literally, grew firmer. He talked to the
Countess as though he had discovered some
new book, repeating to her again and again
passages that seemed to conflict with the whole
system of modern society.

" All this ceremony and theological mystery
is a mockery of true religion," he said.
" Christianity is simply love ; not the love of
one person, but the love of all persons, with-
out distinction of age, sex, relationship, or
nationality. Love is religion, and religion is
love."

Then began that sweeping, weird change

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07V THE GREAT HIGH WAT

in the Count's life. His splendid house in
Moscow was shut up, and he went to make his
home with the rough peasants of Yasnia
Poliana. His country residence soon gave
evidence of his purpose. The carpets disap-
peared from the floors, the walls were stripped
bare, and all objects of luxury were banished.
The Count put on the coarse dress of the
common moujik, and buckled a leather belt
around his waist. He ploughed the fields with
his own hands.

" I have no right to ask other men to work
with their muscles and avoid manual toil my-
self," he said simply. The village shoemaker
became the Count's chum, and the novelist soon
began to make shoes in a little workshop of
his own. He fraternized with the peasants, and
sent his daughters among them to brighten
their lives. Work and love became his religion.

Much of this I heard while I sat with the
Countess Tolstoy and her daughters and con-
sumed my black bread and coffee. Then I
went down into the little dingy room where
the Count worked as a shoemaker. Tolstoy
had just come in from a long walk in the snow,

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and was brushing the wet drops from his beard
and blouse. I never saw a more earnest coun-
tenance than that which he turned to me as he
curled one leg up under him and clasped his
muscular hands over his knee. It was all so
simple and real — a man who had struggled out
of conventionality, back into naturalness. A
spectacled, professorial disciple of the Count,
dressed in peasant garb, and belted at the waist,
sat on a shoe bench and reverently watched
his leader.

" The story of the ' Kreutzer Sonata ' is sim-
ply a protest against animality and an appeal
for the Christianity of Christ," said the Count,
searching me with his keen, candid eyes.

" But surely," I said, " you dare not hold up
that awful picture as a portrait of the average
men and women of to-day ? "

Tolstoy's face was alive with eagerness.

" Why not ? " he said, as he knotted and
unknotted his big fingers. " Why not ? Is it
not life ? Is it not the truth ? "

" No," I answered. " I cannot say that it
is. There is more pure, noble, spiritual love
in marriage than you give humanity credit for.

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You judge the many by the few. You frighten
men and women, drawn together by love, into
the belief that there must be something base
and loathsome in it."

"Bah! That is how we talk to ourselves,"
said the Count. "And the most terrible fea-
ture of the whole business is that we go on
practising this half-conscious self-deceit. We
cater to our base passions, and try to persuade
ourselves that we have done some high, disin-
terested deed. Why not be honest, and look
at the ugly facts ? We approach marriage
with preparations that give the lie to our
hypocritical pretensions of purity."

"That is a condemnation that needs evi-
dence to support it, Count," I said; "and I
think you will find it hard to justify in your
own mind, when you look back upon your
own married life, the conclusion that the
whole plan of nature is wrong, and that men
and women who unite with no consciousness
of impure motives may not safely trust the
promptings that are within them."

Tolstoy unbuckled his belt, and clasped his
hands behind his head.

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

" There you fall into the mistake of those
who will not see the truth, because they dread
the result of a sincere self -judgment," he said,
and his spectacled disciple nodded his head
vigorously. " A man or woman has two
natures — the animal and the spiritual. If a
man deceives himself into believing that a
purely physical passion is an attribute of his
higher nature, of course he will go on indulg-
ing it and increasing it at the expense of his
spiritual growth. That is why I protest against
the common idea of married love. It is too
much associated with personal gratification,
too narrow and selfish, and too much directed
to brute pleasure. It is not wrong to eat,
but it is bestial to make eating an absorbing
object of thought. A man should eat to sat-
isfy hunger, but if he allows his mind to run
on his food, he will become a glutton and
beast at the cost of his soul. Eating is
neither to be praised nor condemned. It is
nature."

" And you mean to say, Count, that it is the
result of your observation that brute passion
is commonly mistaken for love in marriage?"

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ON THE CREDIT HIGHWAY

11 1 do. It is the principal source of marital
unhappiness — the awakening, the disillusion-
ment. We are all hypocrites to ourselves."

" But I, too, have seen much of the world,"
I insisted, "and I deny the facts on which
your argument is based. What would you
say if I told you that I myself was in love,
without any carnal consciousness ? "

" I would say that you were arguing against
yourself to hide the ugly truth. I would say
that at the bottom crouched the animal."

" But if the animal is at the bottom, and not
at the top, in what does pure affection suffer ? "

" Let me explain," said the Count, standing
up. " If you take a rope tied to the top of
a maypole in your hand, and make it your
object merely to go around the pole, the rope
will not rise. The rope is your nature. If
you make the animal passions a centre for
your life, your nature will become baser and
baser. Turn your back on the brute, and
strain in the opposite direction, and the rope
will rise, all that is fine and imperishable in
you will be lifted up — real love, the love
that knows no selfish cravings."

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

"Then you would counsel me never to
marry ? "

" No ; I never would give you such advice.
If you are sure that you really love a woman,
and that you love her purely, marry her. Try
to live with her as you would live with your sis-
ter. Do not be afraid that the human race will
die out. Children will be born of such a mar-
riage, but the love on which it is founded will
exist independent of the body — a real love that
no change can affect, and from which there will
be no rude awakening."

As Tolstoy ceased speaking, I repeated to
him Tennyson's argument in " The Princess" : —

" For woman is not undevelopt man,

But diverse ; could we make her as the man
Sweet love were slain ; his dearest bond is this,

Not like to like, but like in difference.
Yet in the long years liker must they grow ;

The man be more of woman, she of man.
He gain in sweetness and in moral height,

Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world ;
She mental breadth, nor fail in childward care,

Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind,
Till at the last she set herself to man

Like perfect music unto noble words ;
And so these twain, upon the skirts of time,

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

Sit side by side, full summ'd in all their powers,
Dispensing harvest, sowing the to-be,

Self reverent each and reverencing each,
Distinct in individualities,

But like each other ev'n as those who love.
Then comes the statelier Eden back to men ;

Then reign the world's great bridals, chaste and

calm,
Then springs the crowning race of humankind."

"Yes," said the Count, when I had ended,
" that is a good picture ; but Tennyson was a
rhymster. I cannot endure that sort of a poet.
When a man has found a word that expresses
his thought accurately, and changes that word
for the sake of a rhyme, he is a trifler. It is
true, though, that a man and a woman joined in
pure love make the perfect being."

" In your indictment of the motives that lead
to marriage in these days," I said, "you have
not counted greatly on the craving for children.
Is not the maternal and paternal feeling a desire
for a sort of immortality — a longing to renew
one's self beyond the grave, to live again in
one's children, with all the errors corrected ?
Is not this united aspiration of the body and
soul pure beyond reproach ? "

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ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

The Count paced the floor of the shoemaker's
room, swinging his long arms as he talked.

" It is nature," he said. " It is like hunger
— neither good nor bad."

" But is it not spiritual ? Is not the love of
children for dolls the first faint awakening of
the soul to this idea ? "

" No. In the first place it does not exist in
boys, although it is undeniably true that the
desire for children is often strong in the minds
of pure girls. As I have said, it is simply
nature, like the desire for sleep or food."

"You speak, Count, of unselfishness as the
distinguishing mark of pure love. Is not mar-
riage unselfish ? Is it not actually the begin-
ning of a life in which each lives for the other,
in which each surrenders personal ideas for the
sake of the other ? "

Tolstoy laughed harshly, and laid his great
hand on my shoulder.

" How can you ask that ? " he said. " Mar-
riage is the worst kind of selfishness, for it is
double. There is no egotism like family ego-
tism. In the selfishness of their life the hus-
band and wife forget the love they owe to the

136

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

rest of the world. Real love is simply- the
cohesive force of the spirit which draws the
whole race together. That cohesive force I
call God. God is simply love. That is what
Christ tried to tell the world, but the churches
have put another message in his mouth.

"Yes, yes, I know they say I have declared
that marriage is a failure. That is nonsense.
It is a failure when husband and wife fail to
look upon mere passion as selfishness, and as
the enemy of spiritual growth. From the
worldly standpoint marriage ought to be a
great success. Married life is the most eco-
nomical life. A man stays at home instead of
rioting abroad. I know that before I was mar-
ried I was always in need of money, no matter
how much my income was. In the very first
month of my married life I found that I had
more money than I really needed."

" Count Tolstoy," I said, " how do you define
the soul as separate from the body during life ?
There are faculties of the higher nature that
can vanish. The doctors will explain it by
telling you that a certain part of the brain
is diseased. When the skull is opened after

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

death they can show you the destroyed
tissue."

" Lies ! lies ! lies ! " said Tolstoy, fiercely. I
had struck him in a tender part. " The belief
in doctors has reached the point of superstition.
It is the fetich of the century. It used to be
miraculous images; now it is doctors. Who
verifies their statements? No one. People pre-
tend to look at the evidence, but they don't."

" But if I knock you into unconsciousness,
what becomes of the soul without the body ?"

"You might just as well ask me where my
spirit is when my body is asleep. The soul is
simply consciousness and love. It is personal-
ity, not individuality. Identity may perish, but
personality is indestructible. Consciousness of
my being and love for my fellow-man are the
substance; the body is only the shadow. If
there is anything missing in the shadow, it
must also be missing in the substance. The
soul is related to the body in this thing only.
If a man be paralyzed from head to foot and
his consciousness remains, he is alive. If he
can wink, he may communicate with others.
If he be a king, and a man is brought before

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OAT" THE GREAT HIGHWAY

him for judgment, he can, with a movement of
his eyelid, say whether life or death shall be
the result. The soul is there complete, even
though the body may be all but dead."

" And you think that the Christian world has
rejected Christ? "

"The real Christ — yes. But men are grow-
ing better, and the Christian idea of equality
will in the end control."

"But there are some of Christ's teachings,
which, if taken literally, can hardly be realized
in our present social condition. Christ would
have you set an unrepentant fallen woman at
the table beside your wife and daughters."

"Why not?" said the Count. "Such a
woman is the same in my eyes as my wife or
daughters. She is simply unfortunate."

" You would not seat her at your table ? "

" I certainly would."

"What right have you to expose innocence
and purity to the touch of vice ? What right
have you to let your own flesh and blood run
the risk of corruption ? "

"Modern Christians believe that human na-
ture is evil," said the Count, " but the Chinese

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

believe that human nature is good. In this I
am Chinese. When good and evil are brought
together on equal ground, the good must prevail.
That is a law of the universe."

A moment later the giant had his arm around
the neck of his golden-haired little son who had
stolen into the room. And philosophy was
ended for that day.

140

CHAPTER VII

Tolstoy and his People

I HARDLY know how it came about, but
early the next day I found myself flounder-
ing along through the snow in moujik's
boots with Tolstoy's eldest daughter. After a
few minute's struggle through the whistling
white storm we were in the actual village of
Yasnia Poliana, a double row of straw-thatched
huts on a dreary plain. The young Countess
stepped around the monstrous drifts of snow
with the grace and agility of a deer. Every
peasant uncovered before her, and muttered a
blessing.

We entered a hut, and a low chorus of wel-
come greeted us. We were in the presence of
that Russia for whose sake Tolstoy had aban-
doned rank and wealth. A heavy-faced, hairy
man — a deaf mute, who had once been a serf

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

— sat at a table eating black bread. Two half-
naked, rosy children sprawled playfully beside
his plate. The black eyes of the peasant glis-
tened with pleasure, and the lines in his face
softened when he saw Tolstoy's daughter. His
wife and daughter were weaving clothes for
themselves. They stood up and curtsied.

Medicine for the baby. The little one swal-
lowed it greedily. The pet lamb was brought out
to bleat at the Countess's feet and lick her white
hand. The sick sheep were in the bedroom.

We sat down in the dim hut and listened to
the family joys and woes. The sheep were not
breeding well, and the outlook was hard. Would
the Countess come and look at the horse they
had bought for thirty-five roubles, and give her
opinion? We went into the stockade behind
the hut, and the Countess examined the horse's
teeth and feet. Ideas were exchanged, and
advice given.

Then we trudged through the bitter storm to
the big school hut. It was crowded with tousle-
headed boys and girls chanting the Russian
alphabet in every key, while a swarthy young
man, plainly embarrassed by our presence, tried

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ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

to awe the giggling scholars into silence by
haughtily " eyeing them over." The little Count-
ess had once been their teacher, and no one
could frighten them in her presence; and she
went from one to the other, examining their
attempts at writing, patting their heads and
commending good work. This school was sup-
ported by Count Tolstoy, and his two daughters
were the teachers until the Russian authorities
refused to permit it any longer, lest the Count-
esses might put liberal ideas into the children's
minds.

As we walked back through the desolate
street, we were invited into another hut. A
blind, white-haired woman and her two fat but
pretty daughters sat at their spinning wheels, in
the rude glory of embroidered peasant costumes.
A letter from a relative had arrived. Would
the Countess read it to them ? Of course she
would. The fair young girl, with the snow still
sparkling on her skirt and boots, seated herself
in the midst of them, and began to read the
coarse scrawlings, nodding now at one and now
at another, as references were made to different
members of the family.

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THE GREAT HIGHWAY

It was all so simple, so genuine. She sat
there like a peasant among peasants, sharing
the sorrows and perplexities and humors of their
lives.

I had seen the Russia of Tolstoy.

And when we went back to the house, the
Count took me with him for a long walk. The
storm had died away, and the snowflakes drifted
lightly through the air. A distant tinkle of
sleighbells sounded over the frozen stretches.

When Tolstoy goes out for his daily walk he
dresses like any simple peasant, and I could
hardly realize that the rough Colossus striding
along so swiftly beside me in the deep snow was
the high priest of Russian letters.

"You newspaper writers are an irreverent
tribe," he said.

The statement being true, I made no reply.
Presently the Count forgot the subject.

" You have a Colonel Ingersoll in America,"
he said, as we descended through a little copse
of birch trees, "a loose talker who has said
some foolish words. He argues that Christ's
Sermon on the Mount is not practical when
applied to our present industrialism. I am

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ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

strongly tempted to write a book on this man's
shallow teachings. He is an ignoramus. He
talks as if industrialism were a law instead of
a product of human activity which can be
changed. The truth is, that the whole system
of compulsion is wrong. Every enemy of
human liberty relies upon it. No man should
be compelled to do anything against his will.
In my new work I intend to quote Thomas
Jefferson's declaration that the least govern-
ment is the best government. He might have
gone a step forward, and said that no govern-
ment at all is better still."

"That suggests socialism."

" I know it does."

" You will find Thomas Jefferson a poor wit-
ness for a socialistic argument."

" And you don't believe in socialism ? " asked
the Count.

" No. The American idea is to throw as
much responsibility as possible on the indi-
vidual and so develop individual character
instead of merging individuality into the mass
of society. Americans as a whole believe that
when you try to level man you level downward,

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

not upward. But Americans also hold that
society must wield certain enumerated powers
of government, in order to restrain the ruthless
and the lawless."

" Lawless ? Why should there be any
laws ? "

"Because without them contracts could not
be enforced nor individual rights guarded."

" And why should contracts be enforced ?
When a man does not wish to do a thing, why
should he be forced to do it?"

"Otherwise great human enterprises could
not be prosecuted," I answered.

" But why should these great enterprises be
carried on by force ? "

" Because — even looking at things from your
own standpoint — railways, and bridges, and
ships, and telegraphs, bring men closer together,
and hasten the day when the whole world will
be simply one big family."

The Count strode through the snow in
silence.

" There is something in that. Anything that
brings us men's thoughts is good."

" Without the printing press I could not have

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ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

known your teachings in New York, six thou-
sand miles away."

" True ; but mankind has lost the true path,
and it would be better to go backward and find
the right way of life — the way of love — than
to build bridges. Without human slavery the
pyramids of Egypt could not have been built.
What of it ? We can do without the pyramids,
but we cannot do without human liberty. I saw
a terrible thing in the city of Toula. I went
there to look after the son of my shoemaker
friend who is an apprentice, and I found that
he was working from six o'clock every morning
until twelve o'clock every night. Shoes are
useful, but it is better to go barefooted than to
spoil boys. If we can have the great enter-
prises you speak of without violating the law
of love, let them be continued, otherwise let
them stop. It is better to live as the peasants
live here and follow in the footsteps of Christ,
than to build up vast systems of material wealth
at the expense of the spiritual life."

" Did you ever hear of the Irish soldier who
insisted that the only man in the regiment who
was in step was himself ? " I said.

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OAT THE GREAT HIGHWAY

The tall Count was wading through a danger-
ous part of the road. He stopped and raised
his hand.

" That is not my idea at all," he said. "What
I object to is the way in which men argue to
themselves to prove that their selfish and im-
moral lives are based upon the teachings of
Christ. The Master is not to be understood by
any particular passage of His teachings. It is
the spirit of His utterances as a whole that con-
demns our civilization. Christ would be an out-
cast among the Christians of the nineteenth
century."

As we pressed forward into the high road,
a splendid sleigh dashed past us, and a distin-
guished-looking man clad in rich sables, a
jewelled broach flashing in his scarf, lifted his
fur cap and greeted Tolstoy with a marked air
of deference.

" God bless you, brother," said the Count,
simply.

Presently two trembling old men, in weather-
stained sheepskin coats, and dirty felt boots,
came creeping along the road, arm in arm.
They were pilgrims on their way to the shrines

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ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

of holy Moscow, weary and wretched. They
stopped a few feet before us and, crossing them-
selves, uncovered and saluted the Count as a
brother peasant.

" God bless you, brothers," said Tolstoy, bar-
ing his head. Then he took them by the hand,
and led them back to the house, while I followed
slowly, contrasting in my mind the great men I
had met in the capitals of the world with this
mighty spirit that could reach out and lift sor-
rowful, discouraged humanity — contrasting the
Christianity of this barren, storm-swept Russian
highway with the boulevards of Paris, with
Piccadilly and with Broadway.

My wanderings have brought me to many
scenes on the world's great highway, but I have
never looked upon a more profoundly beautiful
sight than that homeward walk.

We sat down to a rude dinner of vegetables
spread over a long table resting on unpainted
wooden trestles. It was a large room, bare of
pictures or carpets. A piano was the only sug-
gestion of luxury. The hungry pilgrims sat
between Tolstoy's daughters. A slice of
meat was placed before me. The Count

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

referred to it as " that corpse," and I pushed it
away.

" And so you don't eat meat ? "

" No/' said the Count ; " there is no reason
why we should kill innocent animals when
we can live just as well on vegetables. It is
needless cruelty."

" But you chop down trees," I suggested.
" A tree has life. It breathes through its
leaves, drinks through its roots, has sap-blood
flowing in its veins and a bark skin. We know
by the ivy and the sensitive plant that vege-
tables can even think. How do you know that
you do not inflict the most terrible pain when
you cleave a tree with your axe ? "

The Count sighed and turned his great face
away.

"It may be so," he said; "but I know that
a sheep is less sensitive than a man, a flea less
sensitive than a sheep, and a tree less sensitive
than a flea. I must grade my actions propor-
tionately. It is necessary to fell a tree; it is
unnecessary to kill a sheep."

When the dinner was cleared away and the
lamps were lit in the room where many a pilgrim

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

has eaten and praised God, we gathered at a
round table, where Tolstoy's wife and daughters
knitted warm wraps for the peasants, and his
three-year-old son danced a Russian dance
when his father grimly refused to play " Puss
in the corner." On one side of the table was
the Countess Tolstoy, stately and beautiful, and
on the other side sat the Count, his powerful
features standing out in the dim light like
bronze. Outside, the storm lashed the tops of
the trees, and drifted the snow against the huts
of the peasants. A broken-legged dog whined
on the staircase.

It was then that I heard from the Countess
of her plan for an audience with Alexander III.
She hoped to soften the rigor of the brutal cen-
sorship that had turned her husband away from
his art. I have since learned that her appeal
to the Emperor was in vain. She begged him
to relax the severity of the censors who had
suppressed all that was splendid or vital in her
husband's writings, in their blind effort to crush
out liberalism. The Countess reminded her
sovereign that Catherine the Great had made
her reign glorious in history by drawing

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

around her the great writers of her time,
instead of alienating them from the court.
Alexander listened patiently to the eloquent
woman who had come from dreary Yasnia Poli-
ana, strong in the righteousness of her cause,
and believing that her entreaty would meet
with a broad and generous response. She
forgot that the spirit of progress was buried
in the grave of Alexander II., and that the
ascendency of Pobiedonostseff, the narrow-
souled procurator-general of the Holy Synod,
over the mind of his successor had destroyed
all hope of reform. The Emperor heard her
arguments as he heard the honest voice of
Loris Melikoff pleading for a constitutional
government, and he set his face against tolera-
tion. It is not too much to say that the failure
of Tolstoy to write the last great novel which
he planned was due to the inflexible opposition
of the Czar.

Those who blame Tolstoy for his too literal
Christianity, should see his surroundings, and
then they may comprehend the stages by
which he arrived at his present point of view.
He is honest and sane. Even in the harshest

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

periods of his austere life he has seemed to be
happy. No one familiar with the facts can
doubt that, however erratic his course has been,
he has aroused in the thinking people of Russia
a partial sense of the social, industrial, and polit-
ical iniquities against which his peasant life has
been a standing protest. I have told the story
of his union with and separation from the Greek
church, but I have not told all. There are
other details which do not belong to the public,
but which would help to explain the life of this
extraordinary man.

While we talked together that night Tolstoy
told me that he could never give up his idea
that physical labor was a duty imposed upon
every man, and that he would continue until
his dying day to plough in the field, and to
make shoes, no matter what society might say.
He illustrated his labor creed by quoting the
words of Timothy Michailovitch Bondareff, the
Russian peasant whose interdicted book was
made known to the world by the Count : —

" You may give all the treasures in the world
to purchase a child, but it will not then be your
own. It never has been yours and never can

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

be. It belongs only to its own mother. It is
the same with the question of food. A man
may neglect the duty of laboring for bread;
he may buy a loaf with money. But that loaf
still belongs to the person whose labor earned
it. For, even as a woman cannot purchase
motherhood with money, nor in any other way,
so a man ought, by the work of his own hands,
to procure the necessary food for his own sub-
sistence and that of his wife and children. He
cannot elude the obligation by any means, what-
ever may be his rank or merit."

Here, then, was the secret of Tolstoy's life —
love and labor. He worked four hours every
day with his pen, but he also did his stint of
manual toil. He went out among the down-
trodden peasants, not only to preach the holi-
ness of labor, but to share with them the satis-
faction and dignity of producing wealth with
his own hands. Imagine Shakespeare, or
Goethe, or Dante, or Hugo, or Thackeray
leading such a crusade in their declining
years !

Through the mist of years that has gathered
since I went to Yasnia Poliana I can look back

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ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

and see Tolstoy reading BondarefF s will as
though it were his own : —

" I will order my son not to bury me in the
cemetery, but in the ground, which, cultivated
by my arms, has furnished our daily bread. I
will pray him not to fill my grave with clay or
sand, but with fertile earth, and to leave no
mound or anything to indicate the place of my
burial. I will direct him to continue every year
to sow the place with good wheat. Later this
land may belong to some other cultivator, and
in this manner they will gather the bread of
life from my grave to the end of the world.
Men will speak of my obsequies from century
to century, and many laborers will follow my
example. Perhaps some among you, O ye
nobles and rich men, will also be interred in
the earth where men sow their grain!"

The country round about Yasnia Poliana is
hard and desolate. There is little to remind the
peasants of the outside world except the visita-
tions of the Imperial Government in search of
recruits for the army. They live on from gen-
eration to generation, sequestered from the fever-
ish influences of modern civilization. Few of

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ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

them understand Tolstoy. They know that he
is a great author, and they have heard that the
Emperor ordered him to live in the country be-
cause he was a zealous champion of the common
people and reviled the aristocracy. But I can-
not believe that they suspect the tenderness and
pity with which he regards them, And yet the
pilgrims who are fed at his table and sheltered
beneath his roof carry to all parts of the empire
tales of Tolstoy's goodness, and the village
shoemaker, who has worked side by side with
him, declares that, although the Count makes
poor shoes, he has made the young men proud
to be laborers.

Since the preceding lines were written, the
hierarchy of the Greek church has formally ex-
communicated Count Tolstoy. Orthodox Chris-
tianity has cursed and rejected the one modern
man who has tried to follow literally in the foot-
steps of Christ. And yet, when the intolerant
bigots who struck his name from the Christian
rolls are mouldering in forgotten graves, the
influence of Lyoff Tolstoy's example and teach-
ings will be a living influence in the world.

156

CHAPTER VIII
" The Butcher"

WHILE the Cuban Republic was still
wandering in the tall grass, and
God was leading Spain to destruc-
tion over the well-worn path of tyranny, I had
my first view of Captain-general Weyler in his
Havana palace.

From the windows of the room in which we
sat we could see the little church that covered
the tomb of Columbus, whose ashes were soon
to be carried back, under a furled and van-
quished flag, to the land that sent him forth,
four centuries before, with sword and cross,
to carry the Spanish idea of Christianity into
a new hemisphere.

It was a time of terror. The streets of
Havana swarmed with spies, the dungeons of
Morro Castle and the mighty Cabanas were
crowded with Cuban patriots ; and the trampled
grass between the colossal walls of the vener-

157

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

able fortress was stained with the blood of
insurgents murdered in public with all the
outward surroundings of law. From one end
of Cuba to the other came stories of massacre
and pitiless persecution.

Yet the armies of Gomez, Garcia, and
Maceo still held the field, the Cuban junta in
Havana, under the very nose of the terrible
Captain-general, continued to hold its secret
sessions, and the American newspaper corre-
spondents, treading the secret precincts of
insurgent activity, in the shadow of the royal
palace, saw to it that the lamp of American
sympathy was kept trimmed and burning
brightly.

How delicately balanced are the decisive
events of history sometimes! There are days
when the destiny of a nation may be influenced
by the slightest breath.

At such a time I saw Captain-general Weyler,
the most sinister figure of the nineteenth cen-
tury. He was a short, broad-shouldered man,
dressed in a general's uniform, with a blood-red
sash wound around his waist. His head was
too large for his body. The forehead was

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

narrow, the nose and jaws prominent and
bony ; the chin heavy and projecting. The
sharp lower teeth were thrust out beyond the
upper rows, giving the mouth a singular ex-
pression of brutal determination. The eyes
were gray and cold. The voice was harsh
and guttural — a trace of his Austrian ances-
try — and he jerked his words out in the
curt manner of a man accustomed to absolute
authority. It was a smileless, cruel face, with
just a suggestion of treachery in the crows'
feet about the eyes ; otherwise bold and
masterful.

This was Don Valeriano Weyler, Marquis of
Tenerife, the Spanish Captain-general, who
had just ordered his army practically to exter-
minate the Cuban nation, the fierce disciple
of Cortez and Alva, at the mention of whose
name the women and children of unhappy
Cuba shuddered ; the incarnation of the surviv-
ing spirit of mediaeval Europe, desperately
struggling to retain a foothold in the western
world. He was the guardian of the last rem-
nant of Spanish authority in the hemisphere
once controlled by Spain ; a worthy instrument

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

to close the most unspeakable period of colonial
government.

" You have set your hand to a difficult task,"
I ventured.

" We shall crush the insurgents like that,"
and the Captain-general closed his hand as
though he were strangling something.

" It is hard to extinguish the republican spirit
on this side of the Atlantic," I said. " It feeds
on the air."

" I have two hundred thousand Spanish sol-
diers and fifty generals," said Weyler. " If it
were not for the encouragement of the Ameri-
cans, the Cubans would lie down like whipped
dogs."

It was the voice of the Middle Ages that
spoke.

" Two hundred thousand troops against a few
half-starved men ? " I said. " Isn't it strange
that the struggle continues ? "

" No ! " — the jaws snapped viciously — " the
Cubans are fighting us openly ; the Americans
are fighting us secretly."

" How do you account for it ? "

The Captain-general stared at me and moved

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

his jaws with an unpleasant chewing motion.
Then he rose from his chair and paced the
room. It is hard to convey an idea of the
expression in his sullen eyes.

" The American newspapers are responsible,"
he cried with a sudden passion. " They poison
everything with falsehood. They should be
suppressed."

" But the American newspapers did not stir
up Mexico and Peru and the other Spanish-
American colonies to rebellion," I answered.
" The American newspapers were not in exist-
ence when the Netherlands fought against the
Spanish crown for independence. It is the
custom in these times to lay the blame for
everything on the newspapers. The news-
papers did not organize or arm the Cuban
insurgents. Why are the Cubans fighting at
all ? "

"Because they are lawless; because they
hate authority."

" Who made them lawless ? Spain has con-
trolled this island for four hundred years."

Weyler turned in a fury and struck the table
with his fist.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

" Men like you," he snarled, "who excite
rebellion everywhere — meddlesome scribblers."

"Your Excellency flatters me."

"Take care," he said, with a threatening
frown. " I have a long arm. The penalty for
trafficking with the insurgents is death ; do you
understand that — death ! "

His teeth shone between his lips; his eyes
were the eyes of an angry wolf.

" I understand ; but my death would not help
the Spanish cause. There are a hundred other
writers in New York eager to take my place."

At that moment the door opened. A small,
pale man entered the room and laid some
papers on Weyler's desk. The intruder gave
me a sidewise glance. I recognized him. He
was a spy of the Cuban insurgents, attached
to the palace ; a shrewd, soft-footed, silent man.
He withdrew as quietly as he came, and glanc-
ing slyly over his shoulder at the Captain-
general, whose back was turned, he raised
his eyebrows and smiled.

" Remember," said Weyler, as I left him,
" you will be watched in all that you do here.
My eyes will be on you night and day."

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

That night I was surprised by the sudden
appearance of a New York correspondent who
had incurred the death penalty by visiting the
insurgent army. It was known that Weyler's
spies were searching for him in every part of
the island. He walked into the Hotel Ingla-
terra, and sat down in the cafe among the
chattering Spanish officers with a jaunty in-
souciance that well became his daring char-
acter.

" Nice evening," he remarked coolly, nodding
to me across the table.

" Great God," I whispered, " don't you
know — "

"Yes, I know," he answered quickly.
"They're looking for me, but this is the last
place they will expect to find me. Don't whis-
per ; it will excite suspicion. I've dropped my
identity for the present. I'm Mr. Brown -
Mr. Brown, of New York — travelling about in
search of a chance to make good invest-
ments."

" How did you get here ? "

" Came down from Key West on the regular
steamer."

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

" But I thought you were hiding somewhere
in Cuba."

" Not at all. I escaped from the island, but
I couldn't keep away. To-morrow I'll start
through the tall grass for the insurgent army,
and I'll stay with it till the fight is won or the
Cuban Republic is wiped out. Poor old
Weyler! How mad he'll be when he reads
my next despatches from Maceo's head-
quarters."

It is doubtful whether the Captain-general
ever realized the skill and coolness of some of
the men who fought the battles of the Cuban
Republic in the American press. They
swarmed in his capital day and night; they
wandered about, picking up rare old fans in the
shops, gossiping with the officers in the restau-
rants, listening to the Spanish military concerts
in the broad Prado or the plaza, admiring the
Cuban girls at the barred windows, and appar-
ently leading lives of careless indolence; but
never for an hour did they relax their vigilance,
and when a correspondent disappeared myste-
riously for an hour or two, he was sure to be
shut up somewhere with an insurgent agent,

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

listening to the latest news of the struggle for
liberty.

' The Spanish army then retreated," wrote
one correspondent.

" I can't pass that," growled the Spanish
military censor. " I will not allow any one to
cable such a statement. You must correct it."

"Right," said the correspondent. "I made
a mistake."

Then he wrote, "The Spanish army ad-
vanced gallantly rearward."

" Good ! " cried the Spaniard, whose knowl-
edge of English was somewhat hazy. "That
is the truth. Spanish soldiers never retreat."

Thus the game of life and death was played
in old Havana ; and many a time the Spanish
lion roared defiantly, unconscious of the fact
that the despised correspondents had tied its
tail in bowknots.

Weyler was simply the agent of a political
theory that discontent should be cured by stern
repression rather than by remedial legislation.
It is a policy as old as the human race. It has
always been a failure, but it springs up in
every age. He did his work honestly and

OAT THE GREAT HIGHWAY

frankly. Cubans who refused to recognize
Spanish authority must be killed. There were
plenty to take their places.

I saw the Captain-general several times, and
he was always the same stubborn tyrant. The
newspapers were to blame for everything.
They were the curse of civilized society. It
would be better for the world if every editor
and correspondent were shot.

The time had come to put Weyler to the
test. In Campo Florida, a village eight miles
distant from Havana, forty or fifty unarmed,
peaceable Cubans had been dragged from
their homes, and without accusation or trial,
butchered on the roadside by order of the
local military commander. This awful deed
was simply an incident in Weyler's great
plan for the restoration of peace by the mur-
der of all persons suspected of giving aid to
the insurgents. In order to keep up appear-
ances, the officer who directed the uniformed
assassins made an official report announcing
a battle at Campo Florida, with an enumera-
tion of the enemy's dead.

It was important to prove the responsibility

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

of the Spanish crown for barbarities like
these, and I made my way to Campo Florida
at night. Guided by two patriotic Cubans,
I found the place where the victims had been
hurriedly buried. A few strokes of a spade
uncovered the ghastly evidences of murder.
The .hands of the slain Cubans were tied
behind their backs. The sight revealed by
-the flickering light of our lanterns would have
moved the hardest heart. I made a vow in
that . moment that I would help to extinguish
Spanish sovereignty in Cuba, if I had to shed
my blood for it. That vow was kept.

With a list of the murdered Cubans and all
the circumstances of their death, I appeared
once more before the Captain-general in his
palace. The whole story was told. Weyler's
dull eyes glittered dangerously. His lips
grew white.

"Well," he said, when I had finished, "what
do you come to me for ? "

" You have declared that the American
newspapers were responsible for the Cuban
rebellion."

"Yes."

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OAT THE GREAT HIGHWAY

" Come with me and see the real cause of
the war. I will show you men, supposed to
have been killed in fair fight on the field, with
their hands bound behind them. I will prove
to you crimes against civilization committed
by the Spanish army in the name of Spain."

" Lies ! vile lies ! The Cuban agitators
have deceived you ! " cried Weyler.

"You have heard the simple truth. I have
seen the victims with my own eyes."

"And you dare — "

"To tell the truth — yes. I dare not do
anything else."

" I will expel you from the island."

" You may do that, but how will it help mat-
ters ? I am a mere cog in a vast machine.
I have come to you fairly and frankly with
proofs of an almost incredible crime against
humanity. If your only answer is a decree of
exile, you will confess that the Spanish govern-
ment is responsible."

The rage of the Captain-general whitened
his face. It would be hard to imagine a more
malignant countenance. The veins in his
forehead swelled ; his hands twitched.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

" I will make an example of you," he roared.

" You may threaten me, but the power I
represent is beyond any government; it is
elemental in America."

" I will send you out of Cuba and you shall
not return without the consent of the Spanish
government."

" You can force me to go, but I will return
some day without permission from Spain.
Good day, sir."

" Good day."

And that was my last sight of the most
monstrous personality of modern times until
I saw him slouching through the streets of
Madrid a week before the United States
unsheathed the sword for Cuba. Weyler kept
his word and made me an exile from Cuba.
But I returned to the island just in time to
take a Spanish flag with my own hand, and to
see the smoking hulks of Cervera's fleet along
the Cuban shore.

"Why did we allow Weyler to live?" re-
peated the gray-haired Cuban leader. " Be-
cause he was more useful to us alive than dead.

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

Assassination ? No, no ! the time has gone
when assassination could help any cause in the
world. It is a fool's argument. A dozen
patriots offered to kill the Captain-general
and die with him. We could have destroyed
him at almost any moment. But we would not
stain our cause with murder. He little thought,
when he issued his bloody commands, that we
were always at his very elbow, always within
striking distance. If we had assassinated
Weyler, we would have lost the sympathy of
the American people and destroyed our only
chance for liberty and independence. There
is nothing equal to patience in a fight against
oppression."

It was a strange experience for a man
exiled from Cuba as an enemy of Spain to
stand before the Spanish Prime Minister in
Madrid. Yet there I was. Don Canovas del
Castillo was not only the actual head of the
government, but the supreme political and
moral leader of his people. His voice was the
voice of the nation. It was he who seated the

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

reigning dynasty on the throne, and his hand
wrote the constitution of the monarchy.

He looked like an old lion as he sat in his
splendid audience room, under Velasquez's
matchless portraits of Philip IV. and Louis
XIV. in their childhood, his dark eyes flashing
beneath his massive forehead and shaggy, white
brows. No one could have looked upon that
strong, venerable face and heard that hard,
steely voice, without knowing that Spain was
ready to meet her fate, whatever it might be,
and that Spanish pride was as unyielding and
unreasonable as in the days of Charles V., when
his sceptre swayed Europe.

"My government will not yield an inch to
force or to threats of force," he said. " Spain
will make no concession until the insurrection
in Cuba has been brought under control, and
until we can give, of our own free will, what
we refuse to allow any one to take, either by
armed insurrection or by treasonable intrigue
with other nations. Independent Cuba would
mean a government dominated by negroes ; not
such negroes as are to be found in the United
States, but African negroes, African in every

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

sense. Independent Cuba would mean civil
war between whites and blacks ; it would mean
fifty years of anarchy ; it would mean the
destruction of the island and its commerce.
Such a republic would be a menace to the
peace of the United States. It would be worse
than Hayti, far worse. Spain cannot under-
take to be guided in her domestic affairs by
any other government, nor can she allow any
foreign agitation to influence her in dealing
with her rebellious colony. We seek peace,
but we will not shrink from war in any matter
touching our honor. If the United States
forces war upon Spain, we are ready to defend
ourselves, but we are determined that Spain
shall be the nation attacked, and not herself
the aggressor. Spain will defend herself at
all hazards. The question of the comparative
strength of nations will not enter into the
matter at all. We are ready to meet whatever
the future holds for us."

That future, which the lionlike Premier chal-
lenged so bravely, held death by assassination
for him and a bloody defeat for his country.

When the mobs of Madrid were shrieking

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

defiance to the United States in the Puerto del
Sol, and the wild bulls furnished by the last
descendant of Columbus were fighting to raise
money for a warship to be used against the
new-world champions of Cuba, I went with a
friend to see the Escurial, that monastery-
fortress where Philip II. retired to nurse his
gouty leg after God and England had destroyed
the Armada.

As we descended into the wonderful marble
crypt which holds the dust of all the sovereigns
of Spain, my companion uncovered and said: —

" Dead glory riseth never."

173

CHAPTER IX
Familiar Glimpses of Yellow Journalism

IT has been said by those calm students of
human events who were untroubled by the
cries of oppressed Cuba, that the war be-
tween the United States and Spain was the
work of the " yellow newspapers " — that form
of American journalistic energy which is not
content merely to print a daily record of history,
but seeks to take part in events as an active
and sometimes decisive agent.

That was a saying of high reproach when
the armed struggle began and when Continental
Europe frowned upon the American cause.
" Yellow journalism " was blood guilty. It had
broken the peace of the world. Its editors
were enemies of society and its correspondents
ministers of passion and disorder. Its lying
clamors had aroused the credulous mob, over-
thrown the dignified policies of government,
and dishonored international law.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

But when the results of that conflict justified
the instrumentalities which produced it, when
the world accepted the emancipation of Cuba
from the bloody rule of Spain as a glorious step
in the progress of mankind, — then the part
played by the newspapers was forgotten, and
"yellow journalism" was left to sing its own
praises; and its voice was long and loud and
sometimes tiresome.

Little politicians arose and, with their hands
on their hearts, acknowledged that they had
done the thing and were willing to have it
known of men. Heroes of a three months'
war, who had faced the perils of tinned beef,
bared their brows for the laurels of a grateful
nation. The party in power at Washington
solemnly thanked God that it had had the
wisdom and courage to strike a blow for human
liberty. The government's press censors in
Cuba and the Philippines were instructed to
suppress the attempts of indignant "yellow
journalism " to call attention to its own deeds.

And yet no true history of the war which
banished Spain from the western hemisphere
and released the Philippine archipelago from

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ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

her tyranny, can be written without an acknowl-
edgment that whatever of justice and freedom
and progress was accomplished by the Spanish-
American war was due to the enterprise and
tenacity of "yellow journalists," many of whom
lie in unremembered graves.

As one of the multitude who served in that
crusade of "yellow journalism," and shared in
the common calumny, I can bear witness to the
martyrdom of men who suffered all but death
— and some, even death itself — in those days
of darkness.

It may be that a desire to sell their news-
papers influenced some of the " yellow editors,"
just as a desire to gain votes inspired some of
the political orators. But that was not the
chief motive; for if ever any human agency
was thrilled by the consciousness of its moral
responsibility, it was " yellow journalism " in
the never-to-be-forgotten months before the out-
break of hostilities, when the masterful Spanish
minister at Washington seemed to have the
influence of every government in the world
behind him in his effort to hide the truth and
strangle the voice of humanity.

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How little they know of " yellow journalism "
who denounce it ! How swift they are to con-
demn its shrieking headlines, its exaggerated
pictures, its coarse buffoonery, its intrusions
upon private life, and its occasional inaccura-
cies ! But how slow they are to see the stead-
fast guardianship of public interests which it
maintains ! How blind to its unf earing warfare
against rascality, its detection and prosecution
of crime, its costly searchings for knowledge
throughout the earth, its exposures of humbug,
its endless funds for the quick relief of distress !

Some time before the destruction of the bat-
tleship Maine in the harbor of Havana, the New
York Journal sent Frederic Remington, the dis-
tinguished artist, to Cuba. He was instructed
to remain there until the war began ; for " yel-
low journalism " was alert and had an eye for
the future.

Presently Mr. Remington sent this telegram
from Havana : —

"W. R. HEARST, New York Journal, N.Y. :

" Everything is quiet. There is no trouble
here. There will be no war. I wish to return.

" REMINGTON."
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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

This was the reply : —
11 REMINGTON, HAVANA :

" Please remain. You furnish the pictures,
and I'll furnish the war.

"W. R. HEARST."

The proprietor of the Journal was as good
as his word, and to-day the gilded arms of
Spain, torn from the front of the palace in San-
tiago de Cuba, hang in his office in Printing
House Square, a lump of melted silver, taken
from the smoking deck of the shattered Span-
ish flagship, serves as his paper weight, and the
bullet-pierced headquarters flag of the Eastern
army of Cuba — gratefully presented to him in
the field by General Garcia — adorns his wall.

The incident which did more to arouse the
sentimental opposition of the American people
to Spain than anything which happened prior
to the destruction of the Maine, was the rescue
of the beautiful Evangelina Cisneros from a
Havana prison by the JotirnaVs gallant corre-
spondent, Karl Decker. There is nothing in fic-
tion more romantic than this feat of " yellow
journalism." And the events which led up to
it are worth telling.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

One sultry day in August, 1897, the propri-
etor of the Journal was lolling in his editorial
chair. Public interest in Cuba was weak. The
Spanish minister at Washington had drugged
the country with cunningly compounded state-
ments. The government was indifferent. The
weather was too hot for serious agitation.
Every experienced editor will tell you that it
is hard to arouse the popular conscience in
August. Perspiring man refuses to allow him-
self to be worked into a moral rage. The pro-
letariat of liberty was in a hole. The most
tremendous headlines failed to stir the crowd.

An attendant entered the room with a tele-
gram, which Mr. Hearst read languidly : —

" HAVANA.

" Evangelina Cisneros, pretty girl of seventeen
years, related to President of Cuban Republic,
is to be imprisoned for twenty years on African
coast, for having taken part in uprising Cuban
political prisoners on Isle of Pines."

He read it over a second time and was
about to cast it on his desk — but no ! He
stared at the little slip of paper and whistled
softly. Then he slapped his knee and laughed.

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" Sam ! " he cried.

A tall, shaven, keen-eyed editor entered from
the next room.

" We've got Spain, now ! " exclaimed Mr.
Hearst, displaying the message from Cuba.
" Telegraph to our correspondent in Havana to
wire every detail of this case. Get up a peti-
tion to the Queen Regent of Spain for this girl's
pardon. Enlist the women of America. Have
them sign the petition. Wake up our corre-
spondents all over the country. Have distin-
guished women sign first. Cable the petitions
and the names to the Queen Regent. Notify
our minister in Madrid. We can make a na-
tional issue of this case. It will do more to
open the eyes of the country than a thousand
editorials or political speeches. The Spanish
minister can attack our correspondents, but
we'll see if he can face the women of America
when they take up the fight. That girl must be
saved if we have to take her out of prison by
force or send a steamer to meet the vessel that
carries her away — but that would be piracy,
wouldn't it?"

Within an hour messages were flashing to

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

Cuba, England, France, Spain, and to every
part of the United States. The petition to the
Queen Regent was telegraphed to more than
two hundred correspondents in various Ameri-
can cities and towns. Each correspondent was
instructed to hire a carriage and employ what-
ever assistance he needed, get the signatures of
prominent women of the place, and telegraph
them to New York as quickly as possible.
Within twenty-four hours the vast agencies of
" yellow journalism " were at work in two hemi-
spheres for the sake of the helpless girl pris-
oner. Thousands of telegrams poured into the
Journal office. Mrs. Jefferson Davis, the widow
of the Confederate President, wrote this appeal,
which the Journal promptly cabled to the
summer home of the Queen Regent at San
Sebastian : —

"To HER MAJESTY, MARIA CRISTINA, Queen

Regent of Spain : —

" Dear Madam : In common with many of
my countrywomen I have been much moved by
the accounts of the arrest and trial of Sefiorita
Evangelina Cisneros. Of course, at this great
distance, I am ignorant of the full particulars

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

of her case. But I do know she is young, de-
fenceless, and in sore straits. However, all the
world is familiar with the shining deeds of the
first lady of Spain, who has so splendidly illus-
trated the virtues which exalt wife and mother,
and who has added to these the wisdom of a
statesman and the patience and fortitude of a
saint.

"To you I appeal to extend your powerful
protection over this poor captive girl — a child
almost in years — to save her from a fate
worse than death. I am sure your kind heart
does not prompt you to vengeance, even though
the provocation has been great. I entreat you
to give her to the women of America, to live
among us in peace.

"We will become sureties that her life in
future will be one long thank-offering for your
clemency.

" Do not, dear Madam, refuse this boon to us,
and we will always pray for the prosperity of
the young King, your son, and for that of his
wise and self-abnegating mother.

"Your admiring and respecting petitioner,
"VARINA JEFFERSON DAVIS."

Then Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, author of the
" Battle Hymn of the Republic," wrote this

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

appeal to the Pope, which the Journal cabled to

the Vatican : — '

"To His HOLINESS, LEO XIII.:

" Most Holy Father: — To you, as the head
of Catholic Christendom, we appeal for aid in
behalf of Evangelina Cisneros, a young lady of
Cuba, one of whose near relatives is concerned
in the present war, in which she herself has
taken no part. She has been arrested, tried by
court martial, and is in danger of suffering a
sentence more cruel than death — that of twenty
years of exile and imprisonment in the Spanish
penal colony of Ceuta, in Africa, where no
woman has ever been sent, and where, besides
enduring every hardship and indignity, she
would have for her companions the lowest
criminals and outcasts.

" We implore you, Holy Father, to emulate
the action of that Providence which interests
itself in the fall of a sparrow. A single word
from you will surely induce the Spanish govern-
ment to abstain from this act of military ven-
geance, which would greatly discredit it in the
eyes of the civilized world.

" We devoutly hope that your wisdom will see
fit to utter this word, and to make not us alone,
but humanity, your debtors.

" JULIA WARD HOWE."

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

The mother of President McKinley signed a
petition to the Queen Regent. The wife of
Secretary of State Sherman gave her name to
the appeal, and soon the most representative
women of the nation joined the movement.
Fifteen thousand names were cabled by the
Journal to the palace of San Sebastian. The
country began to ring with the story of Evange-
lina Cisneros. Hundreds of public meetings
were convened. The beautiful young prisoner
became the protagonist of the Cuban struggle
for liberty. Spain was denounced and the
President was urged to lend his influence to the
patriot cause of Cuba. The excitement grew
day by day. It stirred up forces of sympathy
that had lain dormant until then. The wily
Spanish minister at Washington was in a trap.
He did not dare to attack a movement sup-
ported by the wives and daughters of the great
leaders of every political party in the United
States.

How we worked and watched for poor Cuba
in those days! How the tired writers stuck
to the fight in those hot, breathless nights !
And how the palace officials in Spain and the

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

Captain-general in Cuba cursed us for our
pains !

Presently there came a message from Cuba.
Karl Decker had carried out his instructions.
"Yellow journalism" had broken the bars of
the Spanish prison. The beautiful young pris-
oner was safe on the ocean and would be in
New York in a few days.

Not only had the girl been lifted out of the
prison window through the shattered iron bar-
riers and carried from rooftop to rooftop in the
night over a teetering ladder, but she had been
secreted in Havana in spite of the frantic search
of the Spanish authorities and, disguised as a
boy, had been smuggled on board of a departing
steamer under the very noses of the keenest
detectives in Havana.

" Now is the time to consolidate public sen-
timent," said Mr. Hearst. "Organize a great
open-air reception in Madison Square. Have
the two best military bands. Secure orators,
have a procession, arrange for plenty of fire-
works and searchlights. Announce that Miss
Cisneros and her rescuer will appear side by
side and thank the people. Send men to all

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

the political leaders in the city, and ask them
to work up the excitement. We must have a
hundred thousand people, together that night.
It must be a whale of a demonstration — some-
thing that will make the President and Con-
gress sit up and think."

Who, of all the countless multitude that wit-
nessed that thrilling scene in Madison Square,
knew the processes by which " yellow journal-
ism," starting with that little message from
Havana, had set in motion mighty forces of
sympathy, which increased day by day, until
Congress met, and the conscience of the na-
tion found its official voice.

The time has not yet come when all the
machinery employed by the American press in
behalf of Cuba can be laid bare to the public.
Great fortunes were spent in the effort to arouse
the country to a realization of the real situation.
Things which cannot even be referred to now
were attempted.

It was my fortune to interview Canovas del
Castillo, the Prime Minister of Spain, a few
months before the outbreak of the war. As I
had been exiled from Cuba — whither I had

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

gone as a special correspondent for the New
York World — by Captain-general Weyler, the
experience in Madrid was doubly interesting.

"The newspapers in your country seem to
be more powerful than the government," said
the lion-headed Premier.

" Not more powerful, your Excellency, but
more in touch with the real sovereignty of
the nation, the people. The government is
elected only once in four years, while the news-
papers have to appeal to their constituents
every day in the year."

If the war against Spain is justified in the
eyes of history, then "yellow journalism" de-
serves its place among the most useful instru-
mentalities of civilization. It may be guilty of
giving the world a lop-sided view of events by
exaggerating the importance of a few things
and ignoring others, it may offend the eye by
typographical violence, it may sometimes pro-
claim its own deeds too loudly ; but it has
never deserted the cause of the poor and the
downtrodden ; it has never taken bribes, —
and that is more than can be said of its most
conspicuous critics.

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

One of the accusations against "yellow
journalism " is that it steps outside of the
legitimate business of gathering news and
commenting upon it — that it acts. It is argued
that a newspaper which creates events and
thus creates news, cannot, in human nature,
be a fair witness. There is a grain of truth
in this criticism; but it must not be forgotten
that the very nature of journalism enables it
to act in the very heart of events at critical
moments and with knowledge not possessed
by the general public ; that what is every-
body's business and the business of nobody
in particular, is the journalist's business.

There are times when public emergencies
call for the sudden intervention of some
power outside of governmental authority. Then
journalism acts. Let me give an instance.

When Admiral Camara was preparing to
sail with a powerful Spanish fleet to attack
Admiral Dewey in Manila Bay, two American
monitors armed with ten-inch rifles were on
their way across the Pacific to the Philippines.
It was a perilous situation, more perilous than
the American people were permitted to know.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

I have seen Admiral Dewey's letters to Con-
sul General Wildman at Hong Kong, begging
for news of the movements of the Spanish fleet
and confessing that his squadron was too
weak to meet it unless the two monitors
should arrive in time. The threatened admiral
made no secret of his anxiety. The question
of victory or defeat or retreat depended on
whether the Spanish fleet could be delayed
until the powerful monitors had time to reach
Manila.

In that critical hour, when the statesmen at
Washington were denouncing "yellow journal-
ism," I received the following message in the
London office of the New York Journal: —

NOTE. — The letter is reproduced on the next page.

189

NEW YORK JOURNAL

W. R. HEARST.

Dear Mr. Creelman:-

I wish you would at once make preparations
so that in case the Spanish fleet actually starts for
Manila we can buy some big English steamer at the eastern
end of the Uediterranean and take her to some part of the
Suez Canal where we can then sink her and obstruct the
passage Of the Spanish warships. This must be done if
the American monitors sent from San Francisco have not
reached Dewey and he should be placed in a critical posi-
tion by the approach of Camera's fleet. I understand
tbat If a British vessel were taken into the canal and
sunk under the circumstances outlined above, the British.
Government would not allow her to be blown up to clear a
passage and it might take time enough to raise her to
put Dewey in a safe position.

Yours very truly,

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

Camara's fleet left Spain to attack Dewey
and actually entered the Suez Canal; but the
sinking of a steamer in the narrow channel
was made unnecessary by the sudden abandon-
ment of the expedition and the return of the
Spanish admiral to the threatened coast of
Spain.

One does not have to be a great lawyer to
understand that the obstruction of the Suez
Canal could not have been undertaken by any
responsible representative of the American
government without a grave breach of inter-
national law. Nor was there any existing
private agency that could so well undertake
such a costly and serious patriotic service as
a newspaper whose correspondents kept it in
almost hourly touch with the changing facts
of the situation. I will not attempt to defend
this contemplated deed as a matter of law.
It needs no defence among Americans. The
facts are given as an illustration of the part
which the journalism of action is beginning
to play in the affairs of nations, and the vary-
ing methods employed.

But journalism that acts is no new thing,

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ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

although it is beginning to act on new lines.
The London Times defended Queen Caroline
against the persecutions of George IV. and was
denounced as a vulgar meddler. The same
newspaper, after compelling the recall of
Lord Raglan from the command of the British
forces in the Crimea, forced Lord Aberdeen's
ministry to resign. That was " yellow journal-
ism," and John Walter was bitterly assailed for
his sensationalism. Again, in 1840, the Times
went beyond the orthodox frontier of journalism
and, at enormous risk and expense, exposed
gigantic frauds, saving millions of dollars to
the merchants of London. A marble tablet
over the entrance of the Times office records the
gratitude of the people of the British metropo-
lis. The New York Herald sent Stanley to
find Livingstone in Africa, and equipped the
Jeannette expedition to search for the North
Pole. The New York Times smashed the great
Tweed Ring, which had plundered and defied
the public for years. The New York World
averted a national disgrace by providing a
pedestal for the Statue of Liberty presented
by the people of France. The same newspaper

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

defeated the famous bond conspiracy and
compelled the Cleveland administration to
allow the general public to compete in the
$100,000,000 loan, saving millions of dollars
for the treasury and demonstrating the financial
independence of the United States.

Surely, if it be right for a newspaper to urge
others to act in any given direction, it is also
right for the newspaper itself to act.

193

CHAPTER X

Battle of El Caney

FROM the torn hammock on which I lay
among my comrades, under a strip of
rain-soaked canvas, the tall figure of
General Lawton could be seen moving in the
gray dawning light, toward the mud-clogged
road along which the American forces had been
marching all night, in the direction of Santiago
de Cuba, where the Spaniards stood in the
trenches and fortifications awaiting the attack.
The battle which ended the rule of Spain in
the western world, after four centuries of glory
and shame, was about to begin.

A sturdy little New York war artist, clad in a
red blanket, — the only dry thing in our camp, —
made his way through the bushes to a neighbor-
ing stream and returned with our canteens filled.
" No time to lose," he said. " Lawton will
open on El Caney at sunrise. His battery is in
position now. Better not wait for breakfast.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

We have no fire, anyhow. Turn out, fellows -
you've been asleep three hours." And the
damp and sleepy correspondents arose to face
another day's work.

Presently we were trudging along in the
mire, tortured by the sour smells of the tram-
pled vegetation, which yesterday's fierce sun
had fermented, and the tropical fever, from
which few escaped.

Monstrous land-crabs, green and scarlet, with
leprous blotches of white, writhed across our
path. Birds sang softly in the tangled chap-
arral and tall grass. Crimson and yellow blos-
soms glowed in the dense green growths.
Troops of vultures wheeled lazily against the
dawn-tinged clouds, or sat in the tall cocoanut
palms. As the sun rose, it struck sparkles from
the dripping foliage. But hunger and fever
and news-eager journalism had no eye for these
things. Before us were thousands of men pre-
paring to die ; nine miles behind us were steam
vessels ready to carry our despatches to the
cable station in Jamaica; and in New York
were great multitudes, waiting to know the
result of the battle.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

When we reached El Poso hill, with its
crowded battalions creeping forward like
thousand-footed brown caterpillars, I bade
farewell to my companions, and, turning to
the left, took the trail toward El Caney — for
at midnight a friendly general had whispered
in my ear that the real fight of the day was
to be there.

It boots not to tell of that five miles' jour-
ney in the withering heat, along paths choked
up with stalwart negro troops, through thorny
thickets that stung the flesh, across swamps
knee deep in water, over jungly hills and
slimy streams. The stone fort on the hill
before El Caney was plain to be seen, and
there was but one thing for a correspondent
without a horse to do, — make straight for it
across the country, and let details take care
of themselves; for the newspaper man must
be in the very foreground of battle, if he
would see with his own eyes the dread scenes
that make war worth describing.

At last I reached the top of a little hill,
so close to the gray fort, with its red and
yellow flag streaming above its walls, that I

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CW THE GREAT HIGHWAY

could see the Spanish faces under the row of
straw hats in the outlying trench on the slope,
and the shining barrels of the Mauser rifles
projecting over the earthworks. Capron's bat-
tery, a mile and a half away, was hurling
shells at the fort; and as the projectiles
screamed overhead, the men in the trench
ducked their heads. They were young men
— not a beard among them; yet no Spaniard
need hang his head for their conduct that
terrible day.

It was a rumpled landscape of intense green,
bounded by misty mountains on one side, and
stretching toward a sea ridge on which could
be discerned the ancient battlements of Morro
Castle guarding the harbor of the city whose
land approaches were obstructed by miles of
intrenchments and barbed-wire fences. Noth-
ing could surpass the beauty of that tangled
scene, with its flowering hills, tall, tossing
grasses, and groves of palm trees. And be-
yond the stretches of rolling country were the
dim rooftops of Santiago.

El Caney was five miles to the right and
slightly to the rear of our cavalry division,

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

which was massed at El Poso in front of the
intrenched slopes of San Juan. The generals
had decided that the village and its stone fort
must be captured by Lawton's division before
the whole army could be joined for a united
assault on the city. Chaffee's brigade was to
make the frontal attack, while Ludlow's and
Miles's brigades were to divert the enemy by
an assault on the south side of El Caney.

" Whoo-o-o-oong ! "

A shell from Capron's distant battery tore
a hole in the stone fort. The Spaniards in the
trench fired volleys at imaginary enemies in
the brush — for the van of our army was far
away.

The only sign of life about the fort itself
was a black hen that ran out of an open
door at the side and fluttered excitedly along
the foot of the wall. There were men crouch-
ing with rifles behind the loopholed walls,
but they kept out of sight.

From the boulder on which I sat under a
sheltering bush I could see the tan-brown
skirmish lines of Chaffee's brigade advancing
over the hills, the sunlight flashing on their

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

arms. And down in the valley to the left of
the village, little brown squads and ranks stole
from thicket to thicket, as Ludlow's and Miles's
flanking regiments crept toward El Caney.
Nearer, nearer, nearer, they moved, on the
front and the side, emerging in quick dashes
through open spaces or disappearing in the
wild undergrowths, lying down, standing up,
wheeling to the right or left, as the voice of
the bugles commanded.

How strange it is to sit quietly, pencil in
hand, and watch such a scene ; to set down
the sounds and colors as a matter of business
— to be in the midst of the movement, but not
a part of it ! — but no stranger, surely, than
to be moving on, rifle in hand, destined to kill
some man against whom you have no personal
grievance, some -fellow-mortal with a home
and kindred like your own.

As the infantry approached, the sound of
volley-firing came from all sides, — a sharp,
ripping noise, like the tearing of canvas.
But there was no smoke. Bullets came sing-
ing over the hills, and little puffs of dust
around the fort showed where they struck.

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ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

The Spaniards in the trench strained their
eyes to catch a glimpse of the Americans.
An officer stood on the breastworks and
searched the scene through his field-glass. A
soldier crawled along the wall of the fort and
swept the field with a telescope. There was
an element of mystery in smokeless fighting
that puzzled the defenders of El Caney.
Where was the enemy ? On which side would
the attack be made?

Suddenly line after line of dusty, brown
skirmishers swept up to the ridges command-
ing the Spanish intrenchments and lay flat
upon the ground. General Chaffee himself,
with his hat on the back of his head, hurried
up and down behind the prostrate Seventh and
Seventeenth regiments of infantry, hoarsely
urging his men to keep their ground and
shoot straight, while the concentrated fire of
all the intrenchments around El Caney tore
up the grass.

" Keep her going, boys ! " he shouted as his
hat was shot from his head. " Don't mind
their fire; that's what you're here for. Keep
her going ! Steady there — ah ! poor fellow ! "

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

A dead soldier rolled at his feet — a mere
youth, with yellow hair and staring blue eyes.
" Here ! some one ! take this man's rifle and
get in on the line ! " And the general moved
on, his harsh, quick commands being repeated
by the officers kneeling along the lines.

Now the Twelfth Infantry began to press
its brown ranks of cracking riflery into the
sheltered gullies -in front of the fort, and Com-
pany C, throwing itself face down on the hill
where I sat, sent a steady fire into the Span-
ish trench. The Spaniards returned the vol-
leys, but one by one we could see them fall
behind the breastworks, here and there a leg
or arm sticking up. The living men in the
trench cowered down. But still the bullets
came ting-ing, and the hilltop was strewn
with our dead and dying. The garrison of
the fort were using the loopholes.

Nothing moved at the fort but the black
hen. As volley after volley swept the hill,
she dashed to and fro, growing angrier every
moment. Her feathers stood on end and
she pecked savagely at the air. A more in-
dignant fowl never trod the earth. She flapped

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

her wings and hopped into fighting attitudes
as the bullets spattered around her. I could
hear the soldiers laughing as the hen ran
from side to side, believing that the whole
battle was directed against herself. Poor crea-
ture ! She escaped ten thousand bullets only
to have her neck wrung by a hungry soldier
that night.

Leaving the hill on which I had watched the
fight for hours, — with occasional efforts to
bandage the wounded or drag the dead off the
firing line, — I went to the next ridge, where
Chaffee and his two regiments were facing the
main intrenchments of the village. By this
time the infantry volleying was terrific. Dead
and dying men and officers could be seen every-
where. The Spaniards were selling their sov-
ereignty dearly.

And Chaffee ! He raged up and down be-
hind his men, the soul of war incarnate. His
eyes seemed to flash fire. There never was a
finer soldier nor a sterner face.

" For your country, boys ! for your country ! "
he cried. " Here ! get back on the line, damn
you," — a white-faced, exhausted soldier was

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

crawling backwards in the grass, — -"and do
your duty. You'll have the rest of your life to
loaf in when you get home." A moment later
the soldier rolled over on his side, and lay still.
A few drops of blood stained his jacket.

While I talked with the general, a bullet
clipped a button from his breast. He smiled in
a half-startled, half-amused way. It had begun
to rain. A bullet tore the cape from my rain-
coat.

"Looks better without it," said the general,
smilingly.

What with heat, hunger, fever, and fatigue I
could hardly stand. We sat down under a tree,
and I told the general how close I had been to
the fort and how long I had watched its de-
fenders. Then I suggested a bayonet charge,
and offered to lead the way, if he would send
troops to a wrinkle in the hill which would
partly shelter them until they were within close
rushing distance. This was hardly the business
of a correspondent ; but whatever of patriotism
or excitement was stirring others in that place
of carnage had got into my blood too.

The general said that he would send men to

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OAT THE GREAT HIGHWAY

investigate, and presently he ordered Company
F of the Twelfth Infantry to make a reconnais-
sance. Making my way to a mango grove at
the foot of the hill, I saw Company F start up
the wrong side — that is, the side toward the
village and not the side our troops had silenced.
A few moments later the company was driven
back by volleys from the Spanish intrench-
ments in the village, many of the men wounded.
The soldiers crowded behind the mango trees
in the very vortex of a cross-fire. The leaves
and bark were clipped from the trees by that
appalling storm of bullets. Yet I could see
some of them eating mangoes, and patting their
stomachs, half-indifferent to their surroundings,
in the fierce pleasure of that unexpected meal.

After a while, Captain Haskell, the acting
adjutant of the battalion to which Company F
belonged, a fine old, white-bearded veteran,
came to where I was. He listened to the plan
for the charge, and nodded his head approv-
ingly. Gathering his men together, he indi-
cated that he was ready.

We pushed our way through a line of low
bushes and started up the hill to the fort. The

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

only weapon I had was a revolver, and the hol-
ster was slung around to the back, so that I
should not be tempted to draw.

When I found myself out on the clear
escarped slope, in front of the fort and its
deadly trench, walking at the head of a storm-
ing party, I began to realize that I had ceased
to be a journalist and was now — foolishly or
wisely, recklessly, meddlesomely, or patriotically
— a part of the army, a soldier without warrant
to kill.

It is only three hundred feet to the top of the
hill, and yet the slope looked a mile long.

Who will judge a man in such a moment?
Who can analyze his motives ? Can he do it
himself, with his heart leaping wildly and his
imagination on fire ? There was the Spanish
flag, a glorious prize for my newspaper. There
was the trench and the dark loopholes and
death. On all the hills were the onlooking
troops, stirring the soul to patriotism. And
away back in the past were scenes of Spanish
cruelty and the wolfish Captain-general in Ha-
vana, telling me that I could never return to
Cuba without forgiveness from Spain. Behind

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

me I could hear the tread of the soldiers as we
crept, crept, crept — and then I lost courage
and ran straight toward the trench, eager to
have it over.

There was a barbed wire fence in front of
the trench, a barrier to prevent charges. But
it had never occurred to the minds of the
Spanish engineers that the accursed Yankees
— unsoldierly shopkeepers ! — would think of
carrying wire nippers in their pockets.

When I reached the fence I was within ten
feet of the trench and could see dead hands
and faces and the hats of the living soldiers
crouching there. A scissors-like motion of the
fingers indicated to Captain Haskell that men
with wire nippers were needed. Two soldiers
ran up and began to sever the wires.

As I stood there I could hear my heart beat-
ing. There was something terrifying in the
silence of the fort. At what moment would the
volley come ? Were the Spaniards even now
taking aim in those deep loopholes ? Not a
shot had been fired. It would come at once,
and my body would go rolling down, down into
the bushes at the bottom of the hill. No one

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

spoke. Snip ! snip ! went the nippers. A
Spaniard in the trench thrust his face up for
a moment and instantly shrank down again.
Blood dripped from his mouth. I shall never,
to my dying day, forget the look of agony and
entreaty in that countenance.

It took but a few seconds to cut a hole in the
fence and reach the edge of the trench. It was
crowded with dead and dying men. Those
who were unhurt were crouching down waiting
for the end. A deep groan came from the
bottom of the bloody pit.

A silent signal, and one of the soldiers who
had cut the wire fence advanced and covered
the men in the trench with his rifle. A spoken
word and the cowering Spaniards leaped up,
dropped their rifles and raised their hands in
token of surrender. There was a pleased look
on their haggard faces that took a little of
the glory out of the situation.

In less time than it takes to write it, the
trench was crossed and the open door at the
end of the fort was reached. The scene inside
was too horrible for description. Our fire had
killed most of the garrison, and the dead and

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

wounded lay on the floor in every conceivable
attitude. A wail of terror went up from help-
less men writhing in their own blood. Just
inside of the door stood a young Spanish officer,
surrounded by his men. His face was blood-
less, and his lips were drawn away from his
teeth in a ghastly way. Beside him was a
soldier holding a ramrod, to which was fastened
a white handkerchief, — a mute appeal for life.

The officer threw his hands up. He could
speak French. Would he surrender ? Yes,
yes, yes ! — do with him what we pleased.
Did he understand that if his men fired another
shot his safety could not be assured ? Yes,
yes, yes ! and every Spaniard dropped his
weapon.

I looked above the roofless walls for the
flag. It was gone. A lump came in my throat.
The prize had disappeared.

" A shell carried the flag away," said the
Spanish officer. " It is lying outside."

Dashing through the door and running
around to the side facing El Caney, I saw the
red and yellow flag lying in the dust, a frag-
ment of the staff still attached to it. I picked

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

it up and wagged it at the intrenched village.
A wiser man would have refrained from that
challenge ; but I was not wise that day. In-
stantly the Spanish intrenchments on the village
slopes replied with volleys, and I ran, in a cloud
of dust, to the other side of the fort, where our
soldiers seized the captured flag, waved it and
cheered like madmen. From every hillside
came the sound of shouting troops as the torn
symbol of victory was tossed from hand to
hand.

Although bullets were beating around the
door of the fort, Captain Haskell — who, with
Captain Clarke, had kept the rifles of Company
F busily employed — agreed to enter and
assure the prisoners of their safety. We went
in and, while we stood talking to the Spanish
officer, I felt a stinging pain in the upper part of
the left arm, as though a blow had been struck
with a shut fist. The sensation was no more
and no less than that which might have come,
from a rough punch by some too hilarious
friend. It whirled me half around but did not
knock me down. The next moment there was
a numbness in the arm, a darting pain in the

209

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

hand and a sharp sensation in the back — the
arm hung loose as though it did not belong to
me. A Mauser bullet, entering one of the
loopholes, had smashed the arm and torn a
hole in my back.

It is not necessary to describe how I stag-
gered to a hammock in a compartment of the
fort and lay there, hearing my own blood drip,
how Major John A. Logan and five of his
gallant men passed me out of the fort through
a hole made by our artillery, and how I was
carried down the hill and laid on the roadside
among the wounded, with the captured Spanish
colors thrown over me. After all, it was a
mere personal incident in a well-fought battle,
and hundreds of other men had suffered more.

Our troops were still fighting their way into
the village, and we could hear the savage rip-
rip-ripping of the rifles in the distance and hear
the calling of the bugles.

Then an American flag was carried past us
on its way to the fort and brave old Colonel
Haskell, with bullet holes in his neck and leg,
lifted himself painfully on one elbow to greet
it. A wounded negro soldier, lying flat on his

210

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

back, raised his bloody hand to his head in
salute. Bullets sang above the heads of the
surgeons as they bent over the victims.

The heat was terrific. Things swam in the
air. There was a strange yellow glare on every-
thing. Voices of thunder seemed to come from
the blurred figures moving to and fro. A horse
twenty feet high stamped the earth with his
feet and made the distant mountain tops rock.
Little fiery blobs kept dropping down from
somewhere and the world was whirling upside
down. Some one was being killed ? Who was
being killed? Whose sword was lost? Why
was that general standing on one leg and hav-
ing all his buttons shot off ? Copy ! copy ! an
hour to spare before the paper goes to press !

Some one knelt in the grass beside me and
put his hand on my fevered head. Opening
my eyes, I saw Mr. Hearst, the proprietor of
the New York Journal, a straw hat with a
bright ribbon on his head, a revolver at his
belt, and a pencil and note-book in his hand.
The man who had provoked the war had come
to see the result with his own eyes and, finding
one of his correspondents prostrate, was doing

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

the work himself. Slowly he took down my
story of the fight. Again and again the ting-
ing of Mauser bullets interrupted. But he
seemed unmoved. That battle had to be re-
ported somehow.

" I'm sorry you're hurt, but " — and his face
was radiant with enthusiasm — " wasn't it a
splendid fight? We must beat every paper
in the world."

After doing what he could to make me com-
fortable, Mr. Hearst mounted his horse and
dashed away for the seacoast, where a fast
steamer was waiting to carry him across the
sea to a cable station.

Before the sun went down the wounded men
of Chaffee's brigade and a few from the other
brigades were carried on litters to a sloping
field beside a stream, and there we lay all
night under the stars, while Lawton's division
— having taken El Caney — moved on to join
the rest of the army.

How peaceful the spangled blue sky seemed,
so far above the blood-stained earth ! Its quiet
beauty reproached us. There all was order
and harmony.

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ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

" So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,
That God alone was to be seen in heaven."

What was the power that brought so many
men together bent on mutual slaughter ? Was
it all foreordained in the law of the universe?
and had we all been moving helplessly
through countless ages, since the first impulse
stirred primordial life in Eden, to meet at last
as Spaniards and Americans, tearing each
other's flesh and turning the fair green fields
into graveyards ?

Who that was there can forget the next
day, when the Spanish sharpshooters who had
escaped from the village tried for hours to kill
the defenceless soldiers lying in our camp?
Graves were dug and the dead buried before
our eyes. And although the field was strewn
with torn and shattered men, no sound of
complaining was heard. There was something
extraordinary in the stoicism of that place.
The profound excitement seemed to lift the
sufferers out of themselves, above the power
of pain to unman. Not a groan. Not a
whimper. The rain beat upon them. The
terrible tropical sun made the fever leap in

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

their veins and dazzled their eyes. Again the
rain soaked their blankets and again the sun
tormented them. The bullets of skulking
assassins hummed over them. Men gave last
messages for their families. Men died. But
not a sound of protest broke the silence. I
saw more real heroism in that scene of pain
than ever I saw in battle.

Vultures gathered around the camp and
waited in the wet grass. Nearer they came,
with hesitating, grotesque hops, watching,
watching, watching. There was a horrible
humor in the way they hovered near a splendid
negro soldier who lay on the outer edge of
the field, perking their ugly heads from side
to side impatiently.

The wounded man slowly raised himself on
his elbows and flinging a stone at the nearest
vulture, he cried : " Gwan away. You're not
goin' to git me. Wastin' yo' time, suh."

Then he rolled back and chuckled. Even
in that place the deathless American sense
of humor found its voice.

Late in the second night we heard the
sudden sound of infantry volleying in the

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

distance, and from our litters we could see
the flashing of cannons in the direction of
the San Juan slopes. Louder and louder the
roar of battle swelled. It was the attempt
of the Spaniards to dislodge the centre of our
army from its position. But no one in the
camp knew what was going on. Then the
tumult died out, and silence followed. What
had happened ? Had our lines been broken ?
Were the Spaniards advancing upon us ?
Would they spare wounded men ? Sick called
to sick in the darkness. The sense of terror
grew. All night we waited for news ; all
night in fever and silence.

At daybreak a messenger arrived, and a
few minutes later the surgeon in charge of
the camp went from litter to litter, announcing
that he had been ordered to abandon the place
at once and get to the rear. Any man who
could stand on his legs must walk ; there were
only enough well men to carry the most
desperately wounded.

"Have we been defeated, Doctor?"
"I don't know. All I know is that we
must move instantly."

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ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

Alas ! I cannot tell the story of that
fearful journey. It can be better imagined.
Some lived, some died. Looking back at
that stumbling, fainting procession in the sour
roads, the thing that stands out most distinctly
in my memory is the pluck and patience of
the wounded negroes.

216

CHAPTER XI
Heroes of Peace and War

TWO august scenes of national sorrow !
— the thunderous entombment of Gen-
eral Grant on Riverside Heights, with
the reunited commanders of the North and
South weeping over his coffin; and the burial
of Mr. Gladstone in Westminster Abbey, the
end of the most majestic period of English
democracy.

As I look over my wrinkled note-books I
seem to see again the glittering magnificence
of these spectacles and to hear the thrilling
outbursts of funeral music as the souls of two
nations rise to their lips.

One vanished from sight like a god of war,
with a shining sea of bayonets sweeping about
his grave beneath drifting clouds of cannon
smoke — the peace-compeller, at whose death-
bed the greatest war of modern times really
ended.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

The other was laid in the earth to the sound
of organ music, the greatest Englishman of the
nineteenth century — a man who turned a mon-
archy into a democracy without shedding a
drop of human blood.

LONDON, May 28, 1898.

The century which began with Napoleon and
imperialism uttered its last note in the twilight
of Westminster Abbey with Gladstone and
democracy.

They took the great commoner of England
from the vast-vaulted hall, built by the son of
William the Conqueror, and bore him in state
through mighty multitudes in Parliament Square,
laying him under the solemn arches of the old
abbey, among the bones of his enemies, while
princes and dukes, earls and marquises, counts
and barons, the Prince of Wales, and all the
upholders of the proud aristocracy which he
stripped of power, were gathered at his burial.

Early in the morning the Lords and Com-
mons assembled in the House of Parliament
and marched silently into Westminster Hall,

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

where the body of Gladstone, in a plain oaken
box made by the village carpenter of Hawar-
den, lay among huge flaring candles, under
the carved beams of the giant roof that once
looked down upon the trial and death sentence
of Charles I. and the ordeal of Warren Hast-
ings, the plunderer of India. Each of the
parliamentary bodies was led by its sergeant-
at-arms, bearing a golden mace.

The Earl Marshal and the heralds of the
British Empire drew near, and when the Bishop
of London had uttered a prayer, the oak box,
covered with a pall of white and gold, was
lifted from the black platform on which it had
rested in state for three days, and the great
procession of Lords and Commons, privy coun-
cillors, royal magistracy, and all the bright her-
aldry of Great Britain, moved slowly outward.

On one side of the dead leader of England's
democracy walked the Prince of Wales, the
Marquis of Salisbury, Mr. Balfour, the Duke
of Rutland, and Lord Rendel; on the other
side walked the Duke of York, Lord Kimberley,
Sir William Harcourt, Lord Rosebery, and
George Armistead.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

As far as the eye could see, the people of
London were gathered, bareheaded and silent.
The sky was leaden, and a gentle moisture
dropped down from the clouds, but no man
covered his head.

In spite of the immensity of the crowd and
of the pressure from all the streets leading
into Parliament Square, the stillness of the
scene was like the hush of a sepulchre.
You could see the eyeballs of the people as
they moved, but you could hear no sound as
the simple funeral car was borne slowly
forward.

That silence, that immobility, that unutter-
able reverence of the common multitude in
the open air was the greatest tribute of the
English people to England's greatest states-
man. Shrill, headlong London was suddenly
struck dumb.

Within the gray old abbey the sound of
trombones and the deep, rich tumult of the
organ mingling in Beethoven's Funeral Equale
— then Schubert's funeral march in D minor
and Beethoven's glorious funeral march —
sounded the approach of the procession.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

The mighty nave was crowded with men
and women, princesses, peeresses, wives of
ambassadors, actresses, leaders of every rank
and fashion. And rising above them gleamed
the sculptured white forms of the heroes,
statesmen, and philosophers who made the
British Empire.

Another silent company of distinguished
spectators sat in the transept and choir before
the great altar, with its dim gold carvings and
the dusty shield, helmet, and saddle of
Henry V. hanging in the shadowy air.

In the south transept rose huge tiers of
seats for the Commons, hiding the hallowed
tablets of the Poets' Corner, and in the north
transept, built over the age-stained monu-
ments of dead prime ministers, were tiers of
seats for the Lords.

The ancient pavement of the abbey was
covered with dark blue felt, and at one side
— O Death, thou leveller! — about six feet
away from the statue of Lord Beaconsfield,
was the open grave — a deep cavity, coffin-
shaped, lined with black cloth and rimmed
with a thin line of white. Three strips of

221

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brown canvas tape were stretched loosely across
the opening, ready for their burden.

In the aisles on either side of the north
transept, behind the iron railings, were crowded
the newspaper men of almost every civilized
country, among them the editors and writers
who supported Mr. Gladstone in all his later
battles for the people.

There was a hush. The vast audience arose.
Mrs. Gladstone, wrinkled and trembling with
age and sorrow, leaning on the arms of her
sons, Herbert and Henry, advanced to a seat
in front of the chancel railing, where she
knelt and bowed her head in prayer, while
every eye and every heart regarded her.

Suddenly the whole vast space resounded
with music. Louder and stronger and richer
it swelled against the hoary columns, while
the venerable banners hanging over the tombs
of kings and conquerors swayed as the waves
of sound rolled forth ; but still Mrs. Glad-
stone remained on her knees. It echoed from
chamber to chamber, — the graves of mitred
saints, the ashes of murdered princes, the dim
tomb of Mary Queen of Scots, the faded

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

shrine of Edward the Confessor — and swept
crumbling walls carven with the crimes and
glories of a thousand British years.

Once more there was silence. Again the
audience stood up. This time it was to honor
the Princess of Wales, who entered clad in
deep mourning. Even Mrs. Gladstone invol-
untarily rose to her feet as her future queen
approached, the widow humbling herself in
the subject; and again the thrilling organ
tones mingled with the crashing brasses.

White spears of light thrust themselves
through the lofty windows, save where through
the painted glass came the soft radiance of
crimson and yellow and green and blue. Far
up toward the gray roof appeared eager
faces swarming in the sculptured openings
and fantastic swirls of the triforium.

The ponderous western doors swung open,
and into the old abbey surged the Commons,
preceded by the great gold mace and the
Speaker in his resplendent robes. On they
came, shuffling and jostling, four abreast, the
witnesses of Gladstone's triumphs and defeats.
And as they moved into the end of the tran-

223

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

sept and settled into their seats, the aged
privy councillors, preceded by heralds, and the
House of Lords, led by the little, red-faced
lord chancellor in his mighty wig, and fol-
lowed by his bewigged clerks, advanced sol-
emnly to the gallery erected for the peers.

Then came Sir Robert Collins, representing
the Duchess of Albany ; Colonel Collins, rep-
resenting the Marchioness of Lome; Lord
Monson, representing the Duke and Duchess
of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha; a group of grave
men, representing the monarchs of Europe,
and much bedizened with gold lace; and then
Prince Christian of Schleswig-Holstein, the griz-
zled old Duke of Cambridge, and the Duke
of Connaught, and their jaunty equerries.

Meanwhile, the canons and clergy, arranged
according to their rank, in white and black
and scholastic scarlet, moved with a great
choir of boys gathered from the royal chap-
els into the chancel and the space in front of
the altar.

And now came the body of the greatest of
Englishmen, borne aloft on the willing shoul-
ders of his humble followers, with the little

224

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

black-whiskered Earl Marshal of England strut-
ting before it, and the future king and em-
peror, the prince minister, the heir ultimate
to the throne, and the other distinguished pall-
bearers trudging along on either side, their
hands lightly holding the white and gold pall.

Behind them walked Garter King-at-Arms,
with his glittering baton, and the other her-
alds ; then the Rev. Stephen Gladstone, Herbert
Gladstone, Henry Gladstone, Miss Gladstone,
Mrs. Drew, little Dorothy Drew, William Glynne,
and Charles Gladstone, the dead man's little
heir. With them were a group of villagers
from Hawarden, a clumsy, bashful, emotional
following, overwhelmed by the mighty spec-
tacle before them.

When the casket was laid in front of the
shrine, the scene was suggestive beyond the
power of words.

To the right of the altar stretched, row on
row, the huddled House of Commons, and on
the left were assembled the Lords of Eng-
land, Ireland, and Scotland, with the lord
chancellor, in his wig, sitting in the front
row, the gold mace and great seal on the

225

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

table before him. On either side of the pave-
ment surrounding the open grave, were Lord
Chief Justice Russell, John Morley, Lord
Spencer, Mr. Bryce, Sir Henry Campbell-
Bannerman, and the other living members of
Gladstone's famous ministries. At the altar
was the dead leader and his weeping widow ;
behind them the ambassadors and ministers
of nearly every nation on earth.

As the choir sang, " I am the Resurrection
and the Life," the Prince of Wales bent ten-
derly above the venerable widow in the soft
candle-light. He touched her shoulder gently,
and whispered words of comfort.

The Commons looked across at the Lords,
and the Lords looked down at the open grave
of the greatest foe of their order since Crom-
well. The grim white statue of Lord Beacons-
field, in his carved robes and chains of office,
rose triumphantly beside the Lords, a companion
to the rosy Lord Chancellor, in his wig, presid-
ing over the nothingness of heredity.

The hand that had dragged privilege down
and lifted humanity up was powerless to do
more ; the voice that had called manhood to

226

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

power in England was stilled forever. Ah !
well might the little great Lord Chancellor,
perk in his gorgeous robes, and the Lords look
down upon that grave with dry eyes ! Democ-
racy incarnate was about to disappear in the
earth of which it was born, the ashes of its
mightiest leader to become a part of the com-
mon dust of London.

Then there came to the head of the ancient
altar stairs the white-haired Dean Bradley, and
behind him the Archbishop of Canterbury, the
pope of England. After the choir had chanted
"Lord, Thou hast been our refuge from one
generation to another," and " Turn Thee again,
O Lord, at the last, and be gracious unto Thy
servant," the venerable dean read the lesson.

The casket was carried over to the grave,
while the choir and audience sang " Rock of
Ages," to the accompaniment of the organ and
the band. It was the hymn Gladstone had
turned into Latin.

Mrs. Gladstone tottered over between her
sons Herbert and Stephen, and took her seat
at the head of the grave. It was the only chair
in the place. Around the grave were grouped

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THE GREAT HIGHWAY

the Prince of Wales, Lord Salisbury, Lord
Rosebery, the Duke of York, and the other
pall-bearers, together with the relatives and ser-
vants of the Gladstone household. Lord Salis-
bury's huge form towered up beside his future
king, his shaggy head covered with a black
skullcap.

While the great multitude sang " Praise to the
Holiest in the Heights," Mrs. Gladstone stood
up and moved her head feebly to the music.
Her lips and hands trembled, while under her
veil could be seen her pale face, wet with tears.

There was another pause. The great abbey
was suddenly silent. Gladstone was gently
lowered into his grave, and the voice of the
Archbishop of Canterbury was heard in the
final prayer of the burial service — shrill, harsh,
far-reaching.

The supreme moment had come. Mrs. Glad-
stone knelt on the black floor and leaned far
over, with a loving cry, as if she would drop
into the grave herself. Tears ran down Lord
Salisbury's rugged face, the Prince of Wales
wiped his eyes, and the sound of sobbing was
heard on every side.

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ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

Suddenly there was an outburst from the
choir, soft, high, and sweet — "Their bodies
are buried in peace, but their name liveth
evermore."

It filled the vast building with rapture; it
reached from the wife, kneeling among the
great of the earth, to the husband lying in the
bottom of the pit.

The archbishop pronounced the benediction,
and Mrs. Gladstone was lifted to her feet by
her two sons. She swayed to and fro, half
fainting, but presently she drew herself up
erect, and when the audience sang " O God,
our Help in Ages Past," she smiled, and raised
her eyes.

And now came a touching scene. As the
men, women, boys, and girls of the Gladstone
family pressed around the grave, the Prince of
Wales, the Prime Minister, and the other great
officers of state drew back reverently. Mrs.
Gladstone took Dorothy Drew by the hand and
pointed into the grave. Then she took Glad-
stone's little heir and, again pointing to the
bottom of the grave, she whispered something
to him that no one could hear. She did not

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OAT THE GREAT HIGHWAY

point to the future King of England or the
Prime Minister or the princes. She did not
direct his boyish gaze to the Lord Chancellor,
sitting high among the peers behind his ponder-
ous mace of gold. She bade him look into the
grave of the man who would not accept a title
and yet came to be greater than them all.

Garter King-at-Arms, stepped lightly to the
side of the grave and, in a voice that echoed
throughout the abbey, proclaimed the civil
status of Gladstone, and named the offices he
had filled.

Little need for the College of Heralds to
tell the Lords what he had done who lay be-
tween those oaken boards ! The glory of his
life shone through half a century of English
history, eloquent and useful through all history
to come. Rather was tinselled heraldry honored
by the opportunity to speak at such a grave.

Presently the Prince of Wales approached
Mrs. Gladstone, and all made way for him as
he stooped down, and, taking her hand in his,
kissed it. Lord Rosebery kissed her face.

That was all. That was the whole story.
The Lords and Commons, the princes and

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ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

privy councillors, the ambassadors and all the
greatnesses and littlenesses of England trooped
out of the gray abbey into Parliament Square,
where the assembled people of London were
still standing, silent and motionless.

Gladstone's real funeral was out there in the
open air. The common people were shut out
of the abbey, but in their minds were the
blind stirrings of the passion for equality in-
yoked by their great leader, a dim sense of
that peaceful future he would have led Eng-
land to, out of her bloody past.

" And when this fiery web is spun,
Her sentries shall descry afar,
The young Republic like a sun

Rise from these crimson seas of war."

NEW YORK, August 8, 1885.

A hot yellow stretch of newly levelled earth,
a fringe of green boughs, a little hill, and, be-
side it, a small brick vault with a gilded cross ;
vast, murmuring multitudes covering the land-
scape — and on a wooden platform, close to the
empty tomb, the writer of these pages — then
a young newspaper reporter), overwhelmed by

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ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

the majesty of the impending burial of General
Grant in the chief city of the nation he had
saved.

Below was the shining Hudson River, and,
beyond, the rich green mountains sloping down
to the steep gray palisades. Through the trees
a fleet of warships with glistening masts lay in
the stream, and white sails drifted up and down.
White tents stood under the green boughs on
the brow of the river bank.

Every hilltop was covered with the multitude.
Men and boys climbed the trees and hung on
the branches. Every valley swarmed with life.
Every rock and every stump was fought for.
Monstrous white, wooden stands rose from the
level masses, and upon them were seated thou-
sands and thousands of spectators.

Away down the winding road up which the
funeral cavalcade was to come were miles of
men and women, hot, faint, and weary. Moun-
tains and valleys of umbrellas rose and fell in all
directions under the fierce blazing sun.

Suddenly there was a crash, and the crowds
reeled as the hills sent back the thunderous
announcement of the warships that the dead

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conqueror was coming up from the black-hung,
breathless streets of New York. Clouds of
cannon smoke whirled up from the burning
decks and the streaming pennants danced in
the rigging. All other sounds were swallowed
up as sheets of fire and smoke burst from the
black gun-ports.

After a few moments the crowds down the
roadway moved convulsively, and as they swept
backward a line of mounted policemen galloped
past. Behind them came General Hancock, in
an open carriage, at the head of his staff. A
billow of gold lace and white and scarlet plumes
rolled after him into the hot square of levelled
earth. In the midst of it could be seen General
Gordon, of Georgia, who was left for dead on
the field by Sheridan's cavalry, and General
Fitzhugh Lee, the Southern cavalryman.
Slowly they rode past the tomb, and halted
their horses on the hill beyond, under a clump
of trees, a brilliant patch of color. General
Hancock got out of his carriage and walked
into the brick vault, where he stood leaning
upon his sword for a long time beside an empty
steel casket.

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Along the road came the regular troops at a
swinging march. Artillery, cavalry, marines,
and bluejackets moved up to the hill on the right
of the tomb. Bugles sounded from all sides,
the steady tramp of feet shook the earth, furled
banners stood out of the ranks at all angles;
steel flashed and brass shone. Miles and miles
of soldiers and sailors poured around the hill.
The swaying, heaving stretches of armed men
grew more gorgeously brilliant as the colors
mingled, and the sunlight sparkled on thousands
of bayonets.

Magnificently caparisoned horses, with hand-
some gold-slashed officers, swept about the yel-
low earth in front of the tomb. The glitter of
steel in rising and falling ranks, and the moving
masses of colored plumes and gold embroideries
intensified the splendor of the scene. Waves of
color swam before the eyes.

The dull roar of the cannons on the river, the
hoarse clamor of the distant bells of the city
churches, the mournful confusion of dirges
played by military bands far and near, the
shrieking of a thousand steam whistles, the
harsh clashing of arms, and the noise of gal-

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loping horses' feet — these were the sounds
that swelled on the summer air as the victor
of the greatest war in history approached his
grave. It was as if the voices of a hundred
battlefields had gathered in the throat of the
whirlwind.

Near the tomb stood General Hancock, sur-
rounded by the principal officials of New York.
A poor negro approached and took off his hat.
The general waved his soldiers back from the
door, and the negro entered the shadowy vault
humbly, reverently. There were tears in his
eyes.

Now was heard the distant roll of drums,
and instantly the bayonet-lined square yawned
with excitement. Horses and riders, flags and
banners, were grouped in front of the close
ranks of blue and yellow and scarlet and
white that fell back and back with ripples of
bayonets until the eye could see no farther.
Nearer and nearer came the sound of the
drums, and the lines of bayonets became
straight and rigid.

Under a moving cloud of dust a line of car-
riages came in view. They were the pall-

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ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

bearers — the generals of the Northern and
Southern armies. As the carriages entered
the shining, brilliant square, the pall-bearers
alighted and stood for a moment motionless.
The great multitude watched them with emo-
tion. General Sherman gave his arm to Gen-
eral Johnston ; General Sheridan gave his arm
to General Buckner. Then a hush fell upon
the scene as the soldiers who fought each
other twenty years before walked arm in arm
to the tomb. A spirit of softness began to
steal into the place. Through the air swelled
a rich, sad chorus from somewhere under the
hill, and slowly a great, swaying, plumed dark-
ness came into view, with a dark blue square
of musicians in front and lines of bayonets on
either side.

It was the funeral car. Great, deep chords
of music swelled from every side, and all the
troops presented arms. As the car drew
nearer the multitude uncovered. The older
men were crying. A few white-haired vet-
erans knelt in the hot sand and bowed their
heads. Still on the river the crash of the
cannons made the air tremble. Rank after

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

rank of soldiers wheeled into the road behind
the tomb and joined the silent, shining mass of
color that covered the northern hill. The long
line of black horses that drew the car seemed to
creep.

Then out of a quarter of a mile of car-
riages came President Cleveland, Vice Presi-
dent Hendricks, and a host of governors,
senators, generals, representatives, and men
famous in every walk of life. Colonel Fred-
erick Grant came with wife, and behind him
were his brothers Jesse and Ulysses, with their
wives and children. Little Julia Grant carried
a wreath bearing in purple the single word
" Grandpapa." Nellie, the toddling brown-
haired favorite grandchild of the great soldier,
held a tiny sheaf of wheat. The two chil-
dren seemed to be bewildered by the splendor
of the spectacle.

There was a pause. Then the white-faced
guard of the Grand Army ascended the black
steps of the car and lifted the purple casket.
They bore it to the ground, and laid it in the
waiting brown shell with tenderness while the
bands played solemn dirges.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

Now the scene became majestic. On either
side of the fallen commander stood the pall-
bearers. Sherman and Sheridan looked into
the eyes of Johnston and of Buckner. John-
ston's venerable face trembled with emotion, and
Buckner folded his arms upon his broad chest,
while the sun beat hotly down upon his snowy
head. A few feet away, former President Hayes
and former President Arthur stood together.

No pen could touch the depth of that spec-
tacle. The history of a wonderful quarter of a
century was represented there. Whole legis-
latures .from widely separated states were
mingled together. Men without whose names
the history of America cannot be written,
watched the great soldiers of the North and
South reunited over the corpse of the foremost
warrior of the continent.

Beyond the bareheaded crowd of officials
were the glittering troops, and in the river the
warships still thundering their salutes. Over-
head the bright summer sky. The band at the
tomb played a sweet, plaintive psalm, and away
over the hills came the chanting of other bands
mingled with the steady beating of drums.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

Then a long line of veterans, white and
black, scarred and lame, feeble and strong,
filed past the tomb dipping their tattered battle-
flags. A new sound of thunderous artillery
was heard as the army artillery belched forth
the presidential salute.

And all around it was the silent bareheaded
multitude, countlessly stretching out until its
lines were lost in the blurred distance.

The Grand Army men drew closer to the
body of their old comrade, and began their rites
for the dead.

" God of Battles ! " cried the commander,
" Father of all ! amidst this mournful assem-
blage we seek Thee with whom there is no
death." The rest was a confused murmur end-
ing in a loud " Amen." A wreath of evergreen
was laid upon the purple casket, a spray of
white flowers was cast beside it, and last of all,
a crown of laurels.

Then a bugler played an army call, and all
was silence. Stern old Bishop Harris advanced
and read for a few minutes under the shade of an
umbrella. Parson Newman, Grant's pastor, re-
peated a portion of the Methodist burial service.

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THE GREAT HIGHWAY

The end approached. A regular army trum-
peter strode forward to the foot of the purple
casket and began to play " Lights Out," the last
call of the camp. As the sweet notes swelled
forth, a tear rolled down the bugler's face, and
the music faltered for a moment. Sherman's
head fell upon his breast, and he cried like a
child. Sheridan covered his face with his hand,
and tears stood in Johnston's eyes. The stern
lines of Buckner's countenance broke, and he
trembled ; but still the bugler blew his plaintive
call for ears that were deaf, and when he ceased
the multitude was in tears.

Peace, silent soldier ! Johnston and Sher-
man are friends to-day. Sheridan and Buckner
have shaken hands. The grim face of Gordon
looks down from yonder hill in sorrow. War
in thy hand, but peace in thy mouth!

Colonel Grant and his family moved to the
casket. The children threw their flowers on it
and crept backward. Poor little ones ! They
hardly seemed to realize their loss as they clung
to their parents and listened to the throbbing
music while the body was lifted up and borne
into the tomb.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

The door of the little vault closed with a clash ;
the key was turned and handed to General
Hancock.

General Johnston looked around at the crowd,
but could not see a familiar face. Then he
walked slowly to the only friend he seemed to
know, and leaned upon the shoulder of General
Sherman. General Buckner shook hands with
General Hancock. Johnston lifted up Grant's
favorite grandchild and kissed her before the
crowd.

Away they went from the shadow of the tomb
together. Not as of old, but softly, tenderly,
lovingly. Oh blue ! Oh gray !

The Seventh Regiment turned about and
faced the river, and three volleys of smoke and
flame swept over the steep bank. The Twenty-
second Regiment turned about and fired three
volleys more. The guard was mounted, the
dark crowds moved, the cannons were silent,
the bands were hushed, and the bells ceased
tolling. The tomb of Grant was now the shrine
of a reunited nation. The last lingering bitter-
ness of the Civil War had vanished.

241

CHAPTER XII

A Talk with Kossuth

IN old Turin, where the rough Alps are flung
against the sky around the cradle of Italian
liberty, I found Louis Kossuth in the twi-
light of his life. The once emancipator of
Hungary sat before a table in a large bare room
with a rug around his legs to protect them from
the winter draughts, and a black silk skullcap on
his snowy head. Books and papers were scat-
tered about him. A bedraggled bird fluttered
restlessly in its wooden cage in a sunny corner.
A furled and faded flag was the only note of
color in the room.

Nearly a quarter of a century had passed since
Victor Emanuel and Cavour had invited the un-
successful Washington of Hungary to live in
Italy. Here the man who uncrowned the Em-
peror of Austria and drove the mighty Metter-
nich from power had sat year in and year out,
speaking with few outside of his household,

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

watching the driftings of nations, marking the
rocks in the way, and reading and writing pro-
digiously.

He had lived to see all his idols shattered, all
but that great republic across the Atlantic Ocean,
which greeted him like a hero and honored his
defeated flag when Europe closed its doors to
him. But even in his exile, with the weight of
eighty-eight years upon him, he still earned his
own living by the pen, scorning all assistance, al-
though offered even by the royal master of Italy.

A strongly built man with a broad forehead
framed in curling white hair, earnest blue eyes,
a firm mouth, and a hoary, untrimmed beard that
almost touched his deep, full chest; yet there
was a suggestion of old sorrows in his gentle
face.

"You see a man without a country," he said,
as he welcomed me and bade me be seated.
" Yes, it is a fact ; Louis Kossuth is an alien in
his native land. Ten years ago a law was
passed providing that any Hungarian who failed
to appear before a representative of the Austrian
crown and declare his allegiance within ten
years, should lose his nationality. That time

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OAT THE GREAT HIGHWAY

expired two weeks ago, but see ! " — he pointed
to a heap of parchment scrolls on the uncarpeted
floor — " eighty-three cities of Hungary have
already conferred honorary citizenship on me.
So the American newpapers want to invade
the sepulchre of the old man who was foolish
enough to dream of liberty in the heart of mo-
narchical Europe ? " The blue eyes twinkled.
"They want to know what I think of the
German Emperor's international congress for the
settlement of the question of capital and labor?
Well, I don't think much of it."

The man whose army was once the hinge of
Europe drew the rug about his knees and
pushed his gold-rimmed spectacles up on his
forehead, as he settled back in the well-worn
easy-chair.

"The German Emperor's words are only
words," he said. " But he is a young man, and
he is no doubt sincere, for it has been the hered-
itary policy of the Hohenzollern princes to found
their power upon the masses of the people,
rather than upon an aristocracy. However,
congresses of nations do not amount to much,
and congresses of kings are not to be trusted.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

Kings take little interest in the affairs of the
common people, except when they happen to
coincide with their own plans.

" As for the present sovereigns of Europe,
their personal interests are so antagonistic that
it will be impossible for them to agree on the
labor question, even if it were solvable. Mon-
archies, to exist in the present time, must extend
themselves, and no king can set any limit on his
power such as an international compact regula-
ting the relation between capital and labor.

" Two ideas are advanced by the German
Emperor. One is that the nominal hours of
labor shall be fixed by law ; the other is that
workingmen shall participate in the arbitration
of all labor questions. Already the principle of
industrial arbitration is in partial operation, both
in England and America. But the scheme for
regulating the hours of labor throughout the
world is no more practicable than a common
system of popular education for all countries.
Differences of temperament, of physique, and of
capacity, added to differences of surroundings
and climate, create a barrier that cannot be
levelled."

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

The old leader shook his head and wagged
his forefinger as Italians do when they dissent.

" It must be clear to a statesman who has
eyes that the social-industrial question over-
shadows all others," he said. "The human
race is sick of a malady that defies cure. The
progress of civilization has given to the great
mass of the people desires which were once
confined to the few, and each workingman
to-day regards as necessaries what his prede-
cessors considered luxuries. That is a fact
which the political doctors do not seem to be
able to recognize. They ignore the multiplying
tastes and appetites which make the standard
of the basis of life a changeable thing.

" The so-called state socialism will not cure
the sickness from which society is suffering.
An equal division of property or of labor will
be followed in time by an unequal possession
of property and an unequal distribution of
labor. The weak will always go down before
the strong. It has always been so in my time,
and it always will be so.

" Monarchy will not cure the malady. Mon-
archy is going down all over the world, and

246

Louis Kossutb

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

republicanism is going up. The monarchical
principle is not extending itself, while the
principle of republicanism is rapidly gaining
ground. The bloodless change of Brazil into
a republic shows that. History proves that
when one system ceases to extend itself and
an opposing system keeps on growing, the con-
tracting system is bound to be displaced.

" But republicanism will not cure the malady
either, for you have in America the nearest
possible approach to a real republic, with an
enfranchised democracy, free education, and
popular institutions — and the social-industrial
sickness is there too, increasing with your
wealth, with your education, and with your
liberty. There seems to be no remedy."

Kossuth drew himself out of the chair and
sat upon the table.

' ' Meanwhile," he said, with a smile, "the
earth will continue to revolve, and some day
the present population may be swept from its
surface, and a new race, capable of a new civili-
zation, may appear. A cataclysm offers the
only hope of a solution."

"That is a black doctrine to come from a

247

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

man who once preached the gospel of hope
to Europe," I suggested.

" Yes ; but I have lived a long time, and I
know more now than I used to know. Time
is a stern teacher, and a true one. This ap-
peal for an international system of labor
regulations" — and the old man slipped back
into his chair again — " is simply the reasser-
tion of the ancient doctrine that government
must meddle in everything, help everything,
and control everything. The idea is discredited
by history and by the present condition of
the working people. It will not do. There
must be more scope for man ; the individual
must have room to develop. If the people
cannot help themselves, governments are power-
less to help them.

" Much of the poverty of Europe is due to
the expense involved in large standing armies.
They will not disappear until the monarchs, with
their personal ambitions, disappear. Europe
is slowly approaching the verge of a vast con-
flict; it is inevitable. Nothing can avert it.
The only cause for surprise is that war has
not already begun.

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"Now see how this curse of overgrown
armies came upon Europe." Kossuth pressed
his thumbs together as though he held the
problem between them. " When Poland in her
dying agony called to the world for help, those
who espoused her cause were laughed at as
idealists and sentimentalists. What did the
world care about the liberties of the Poles ?
What did it matter whether the little kingdom
was divided up among the great powers or not ?
Well, let us see what that injustice and that
indifference to the rights of a weak nation
have brought to Europe ; let us trace the pun-
ishment from the crime. The importation of
negro slaves into America finally resulted in
a great civil war in which nearly half a million
men died, and imposed a gigantic war debt on
the United States, the interest of which must
be paid by many generations. As Emerson
says, 'the dice of God are always loaded.'
The downfall of Poland gave the Czar a win-
dow overlooking Europe. Russia turned her
eyes toward Constantinople. The Czar became
ambitious in European affairs. The Russian
movement toward Constantinople and the Medi-

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

terranean Sea threatened to upset the balance
of power in Europe. It was seen when the
Czar invaded the Sultan's dominions that Rus-
sian pan-slavism would soon stretch around
Austria an arm strong enough to crush that
heterogeneous and naturally weak empire. The
Germans dreaded such an event, for that would
bring the Russian power on two frontiers of
their territory. And so the Triple Alliance
was formed; Italy joining Austria and Ger-
many because of her fear of France. All
hope of relieving Europe of the curse of
militarism disappeared. Armies grew greater
each year. France allied herself to Russia.
Each combination of nations watched the other
with jealous hatred. More expensive weapons
were invented. The war taxes multiplied. To-
day the situation of the people who have to
pay for all this is almost intolerable.

" But if we had succeeded in maintaining the
independence of Hungary" —the venerable
face was radiant with the thought — " our first
act would have been to go to the assistance of
Poland and reestablish her government. That
would have been followed by a Danube alli-

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

ance of small states, united only for common
defence, each preserving its separate indepen-
dence. This would have given Europe a buffer
between her frontiers and Russia. It would
have settled the Eastern question.

" Hungary was crushed because she got no
outside help. Washington at Valley Forge
acknowledged that he was hors de combat, and
France went to his rescue. Where would Wel-
lington have been but for the support of Teu-
tonic arms ? But Hungary will yet be free.
The Hungarians have preserved their nation-
ality for a thousand years. They deserve
liberty, and some day, somehow, they will get
it.

" I look around me here in Italy and feel
that she is safe. The Italians deserve a great
and happy future. They have been true, so
long and through so many bitter trials, to the
principle of Italian unification. When the
thread of patriotic conspiracy fell from one
man's hands on the scaffold, there was always
another to take it up. The Vatican casts a
shadow on the throne of Italy, but it is a
small shadow. Had the College of Cardinals

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

been adroit enough to have elected to St. Peter's
chair a member of the Royal House of Italy
— King Humbert's brother, for instance — they
might have changed the situation. But the
Papal kingdom is a thing of the past, and no
one understands that better than the present
Pope. As a great writer has said, 'The tem-
poral sovereignty of the Pope is the dead
body of the Holy Roman Empire sitting
crowned upon the grave thereof.'

" England is a waning power. She is liv-
ing on the capital accumulated in the past, and
is rapidly using it up. Canada and Australia
are sure to be separated from the mother coun-
try, and not a drop of blood will be shed to re-
tain them. There will always remain ties of
language and similarities of institutions that
will encourage intercommerce and be mutually
profitable. The two colonies have ceased to
be a source of strength to England from a
material standpoint. India is her great treas-
ure-house. Had Lord Beaconsfield lived and
carried out his plan of using Indian troops in
Europe, England would be to-day a mighty
force.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

"Your country is the one power that is
steadily gaining strength. Your greatest dan-
ger is your wealth. When nations become
very rich they lose their energy and gradually
drift away from their moral ideals. But if
the experiment of self-government does not suc-
ceed in the United States, it cannot be success-
ful anywhere. The American republic started
under conditions never equalled in history. It
had an intelligent, hardy, virtuous citizenship,
loyal and homogeneous. It had an almost vir-
gin continent, abounding in natural wealth. It
had the experience of other nations for a
guide. It was not embarrassed by an aristoc-
racy, or by pretenders to a throne, or by an
ancient system of vested rights. It was pro-
tected from Kuropean invasion by three thou-
sand miles of salt water. That was the
beginning, but what will the end be? When
your men grow rich, and you have a leisure
class, will they be satisfied with the plain
ways of a democratic republic ? Yet, God for-
bid that harm should come to the United
States, the hope of mankind in the future ! "

When I rose to go, Kossuth went to the door

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

with me, walking slowly and with some effort.
He drew the rug about his legs, and shivered
when the wintry air touched him. As he stood
there with bowed head and trembling limbs, he
was a picture of noble old age.

" I suppose," he said, " that when you were
instructed to interview me, you were surprised
to know that Kossuth was still alive ? Well,
I ought to have died years ago, when my work
was finished. I am ashamed to be using the
air that belongs to more useful creatures."

He said this with an air of profound sadness.

"Your work finished?" I said. "It will
never be finished while men live." And I
quoted Smollett's lines : —

" Thy spirit, Independence, let me share ;

Lord of the lion heart and eagle eye,
Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare,
Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky."

"Ah! " sighed the old man, " I am tired of
the storms. If I could choose my place in
nature, I would choose to be the dew, falling
noiselessly, trampled on by man and beast,
unnoticed and unappreciated, but still silently
blessing and fructifying the earth."

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ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

I repeated these words to Count Tolstoy, in
Russia, a few months later. He was silent for
a moment ; then he said, —

" I would much prefer to be a man, and love

255

CHAPTER XIII

The Czar on his Knees

ON that dark, stormy day when the
Czar's English nurse died in the
Winter Palace, I was in St. Petersburg,
and I remember well how the wet snow fell
from the blotched sky, and the wind whistled
up the frozen Neva.

Wherever I went in Russia there was always
present in my mind the figure of Alexander
III., as I once saw him riding at the head of
his cuirassiers — an arrogant giant on a great
black horse, towering above his soldiers, the
incarnation of brute force, splendid and terrible.
But I was yet to see the human nature hidden
under that glittering helmet and breastplate.

The Czar was with his ministers when a
messenger went to the Anitchkoff Palace to
tell him that his nurse was dead and that her
last words were of him.

Through the dull, harsh nature of Alexander

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

there ran one stream of tenderness — love for
his English nurse, "Kitty," she who had
mothered his boyhood. A more unimaginative
monarch never sat on a throne. Lacking the
sensitiveness of his father, he governed Russia
pitilessly, although with a sense of honesty.
But in the' sternest hours of his iron reign his
sluggish heart melted at the sound of one
voice.

And she was dead. The autocrat of all the
Russias went alone through the storm to the
darkened room in the Winter Palace where
his dead nurse lay awaiting the grave with
peaceful upturned face and folded hands. The
giant threw himself upon her body with a great
cry, and, as he laid his head upon the cold
bosom, the attendants withdrew and left him
alone with his woe.

He lifted the frail form in his arms and car-
ried it tenderly to the coffin. No hands should
touch her but his. Then he arranged flowers
about her head and kissed the still, white face
until it was wet with his tears. For a long time
he knelt there with bowed head, and when he
came out of the hushed chamber there was a

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OAT THE GREAT HIGH WAT

look in his face that no one had ever seen there
before.

A whisper went about St. Petersburg that
the Czar had ordered that none but himself and
his brothers should keep watch over " Kitty's "
coffin.

For the next two days the dashboards of the
sleighs in the Russian capital dripped with
slush. It rained and snowed alternately.
While I sat one afternoon in the American Le-
gation overlooking the river, with Mr. Charles
Emory Smith, the American minister, — look-
ing through wreaths of tobacco smoke at a rude
family of Laplanders, exhibiting their reindeer
on the ice of the Neva, — I heard more about
the burly Czar and his sweet-faced English
nurse.

Alexander was the second son; and, while
his elder brother, the heir to the throne, was
alive, the big, awkward boy was neglected.
Little attention was paid to his mind. He was
trained as a soldier, so that he might some day
command the Imperial Guard. Even then he
was the favorite child of the English nurse, and
his sullen nature responded to her touch.

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While the favored brother prepared himself
to reign over Russia, and studied the principles
of law and government, Alexander studied the
soldier's task — to destroy. He was known as
the most powerful Russian of his age. His
strength and his dull, overbearing manner in-
spired fear. None of his companions dared to
challenge that rough temper and heavy hand.
He was the natural soldier — silent, domineer-
ing, fearless ; quick to obey established authority,
and harsh in command. In time he grew to be
a giant, and it was said that he could kill a man
by a single blow of his fist.

But to the dear little Englishwoman who
taught him how to walk and how to pray, he
was always " Sarsha," — the Russian diminutive
of Alexander, — and to him she was always
" Kitty." Even when he came home from the
Turkish war, a successful general, he sought
her out before all others. Lifting her up in his
arms, he looked down into the pale face that
had smiled upon him through all the loneliness
of his gloomy boyhood, and then he passion-
ately kissed her.

" What do you think of me now, Kitty ? "

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he cried. " Have I satisfied you ? Are you
ashamed of your boy ? "

"Ashamed? Ah!" — and she leaned her
head on his mighty breast, shedding tears for
pure joy — "you are a brave soldier, Sarsha,
and a good son of your father. God be
praised for all our victories ! I am proud
of you."

The burly soldier gave her a hug that she
often spoke about, for even then he was known
as one of the strongest men in Europe, and
his hug was not always a joke. So great
was the strength of his hands that he one
day rolled up a silver plate and gave it as a
souvenir to the German Emperor, who had
begged him to display his muscles.

And when he learned, long after his
brother's death, that his father had been
assassinated, he went straight to his nurse
and laid his head upon her shoulder like a
child.

"Oh, Kitty! dear Kitty!" he sobbed, "they
have killed my father! They have killed my
father ! "

She put her arm about his neck and talked

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to him in the old nursery tone, and presently
he was comforted.

"Your Majesty must trust in God," she
said gently.

" Your Majesty ? " — and he stroked her head
tenderly — "I am not an Emperor to you,
Kitty. I am simply Sarsha, your boy Sarsha ;
always Sarsha. And you are Kitty, always,
always Kitty. I will have it so, and I have
now the right to command, you know."

Ah ! would that her influence had followed
and controlled him in the cruel years that
were to come ! How many homes might
have been saved from ruin, how many lives
might have been spared, how many hearts
remained unbroken ! Would that she had
stood beside him, with her simple virtues and
quick sympathy, when Loris Melikoff appealed
to him to grant a constitution to the people
of Russia ! The history of Europe might have
been changed. But it was not to be.

There was little to be known about the life of
the Czar's nurse. She was a quiet, shy woman,
rarely seen outside of the magnificent Winter
Palace where she lived — a patient, soft-voiced

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subject of Queen Victoria, modifying and subdu-
ing the hard nature of the man who lived to be her
country's most dreaded enemy. But although
her name is not enrolled among the Czar's ad-
visers, she was one of the hidden forces that
swayed the man whose lightest breath meant
war or peace for the whole world. How many
such influences lie concealed along the track of
human progress, beyond the ken of history ?
How many loving women have spun their kind-
ness and mercy into the mantles of majesty,
unwept and unsung of the world ?

While I sat there looking out over the dis-
mal snows of the Neva and listening to tales
of the autocrat and his nurse, there was a
sudden stir in the street below the window,
and excited men and women began to swarm
along the edges of the road. A mounted
cossack in a streaming crimson mantle galloped
along the way, shouting directions to the police-
men who kept the crowd back. His swarthy
face was full of emotion. Evidently something
extraordinary was about to happen. Even the
Laps on the river ice left their reindeer and
ran to join the multitude.

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Just then the chasseur of the legation — a
blond whiskerando in gold lace and gorgeous
plumes — hurried into the room, in a state of
agitation unprecedented in the history of that
august person, and saluted the American
minister.

" Your Excellency," he exclaimed, with rolling
eyes and upraised hands, " the Emperor is
coming along the quay on foot. He is actually
walking behind the hearse. It is true. He
will not ride. He is on foot — the Emperor
himself."

Then turning to me : —

" Now you can see for yourself whether the
Czar can go out among his people or not."

I fear that the desire to see the curious
spectacle made me forget my host. I rushed
downstairs only to find that the crowd in the
street had grown so great that nothing could
be seen from the rear but a flashing crucifix
swaying above the murmuring people and the
fluttering plumes of the hearse.

" You must go in a sleigh to another street,"
said the chasseur. " You must not miss the
sight, or you will never believe it." He seemed

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to be overcome with anxiety lest the American
writer should lose the chance of seeing the
master of the mighty Russian Empire trudging
along on foot behind the coffin of his nurse.

"Hurry! please hurry!" he urged. "The
Emperor carried the coffin to the hearse with
his own hands. You will see, to-day, what a
true' man sits on the throne of Russia."

Calling an istvostckik, I jumped into his
battered sleigh and promised him two rubles
if he would get me around through a back
street in time to see the head of the cortege.

Presently I stood in the crowd on the slush-
covered quay and saw the solemn procession
pass slowly on. First came the bearded Greek
priest and the crucifix ; and behind him walked
several black-robed men carrying lighted lan-
terns on poles. Then came the little hearse.
Behind it strode Alexander and his two brothers
through the sodden snow, while the crowd
made the sign of the cross. A few knelt down
and touched the snow with their foreheads in
the Eastern fashion.

The Czar towered above his brothers, a
heavy gray coat buttoned closely about his

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giant figure, and his cloak flapping in the cold
wind. A turban of gray astrakhan wool with a
white aigrette covered his great head, and spurs
jingled on his heavy boots. The three brothers
walked side by side, the Czar in the middle.
His face was pale, and his eyes showed that he
had been weeping. Several times he seemed
to stumble. I stood within ten feet of him,
and could see that he was profoundly moved.
Not once did he look away from the hearse
which was carrying his English foster-mother
to the grave.

Behind the Czar walked a group of Kitty's
personal friends, mostly women, and among
them — so some one said — several members of
the imperial family. After them came a line
of carriages with the well-known imperial
livery. Every carriage was empty. The
mourners were all on foot. A few mounted
soldiers closed up the train.

Not a note of pomp violated the simple
pathos of the scene. The autocrat was simply
a man walking humbly and reverently after the
corpse of the serene little woman who loved
him. The sound of a tolling bell came faintly

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through the white drizzle. The Czar bowed
his head. My rough istvostchik leaped from
his seat and, kneeling in the snow, began to
pray. A hoarse murmur ran from mouth to
mouth: "The Emperor!" " Sarsha ! " "It
is he ! It is he !" But the sorrowful monarch
looked neither to the right nor the left.
The blurred heavens grew darker, and the
wind sifted the snow over the plumed hearse.
The voice of the priest could be heard.

Oh, little gray English nurse ! God has
given it to some women to level all things by
love !

It was a long way to the cemetery, but the
Czar walked the whole distance. He sat in
a pew of the Church of England for the first
time, and watched the coffin at the altar rail-
ing.

"I am the Resurrection and the Life. He
that believeth in Me, though he were dead,
yet shall he live; and he that liveth and
believeth in Me, shall never die."

The autocrat was on his knees, crying like
a child. Kitty! Kitty! dost thou hear?
dost thou see? Tears! tears for thee, Kitty!

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I saw him again just before he entered the
cemetery, his great face wet with weeping,
and his head bowed. And while they lowered
the coffin into a gap in the frozen ground, the
keeper of the cemetery laid a piece of carpet
— the only thing of luxury in his house —
at the feet of his imperial lord, and the Czar
sank to his knees.

" Catherine, servant of God — "

The Czar could go no farther. He crouched
there with the snow falling on his bare head
until the grave was filled up. As he turned
away he looked back at the little mound and
crossed himself. The lamp that lit his early
feet was extinguished.

" Two lives that once part are as ships that divide
When, moment on moment, there rushes between

The one and the other, a sea ; —
Ah, never can fall from the days that have been
A gleam on the years that shall be."

267

CHAPTER XIV

Greeks on the Verge of War

IN Athens for news — Athens, which slew
Socrates, built the Parthenon, and began
. the policy of democracy centuries before
Christ was born. But the crumbling ruins of
the age of Perikles were of little interest to
those who were in Athens when Greece defied
Turkey and the six great powers of Europe
for the sake of the Christians in the island of
Crete, bravely fighting against their Turkish
oppressors. The commonplace little capital
of Greece, which lies among the fallen
temples of the gods, echoed with the shout-
ings of Greeks hurrying from the remot-
est parts of the earth to fight under the
Danish king placed on the Greek throne by
united Europe. A spectacle of national folly,
perhaps, but imbued with a depth of senti-
ment rarely felt in these sluggish days of
commercial Christianity.

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Not only were the Greeks in the cities
arming themselves for the approaching con-
flict, but the goatherds and swineherds poured
down from the classic mountains, rifles in
hand — Parnassus, Helikon, Pelion, Ossa —
and the shepherds of old Thermopylae aban-
doned their flocks on the rough hillsides and
marched over the graves of heroes in the
ancient pass where Leonidas died, shrieking
defiance to Islam and the concert of the
powers. And the railway trains that rattled
over the plains of Thessaly, where Persephone
gathered flowers, were assembling an army at
Larissa in sight of the snowy summits of
Olympus and the rocky Vale of Tempe.

What a strange commingling of bloods was
in that sudden flaming of national passion ;
old Greeks, new Greeks, Slavs, and Albanians
blended together by ages of intermarriage.
In the midst of it all, King George, the Dane,
commanded to peace by the great nations
which placed the crown upon his head, and
urged to war by the mighty Pan-Hellenic
society, whose secret organizations controlled
the army and public sentiment.

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It was only when I talked to the King that
I fully understood the heartlessness and brutal-
ity of the concerted powers — that august coun-
cil of the most powerful military states which
determines the destinies of Europe and Asia ;
that Christless, conscienceless power which fired
on the Greek flag in Crete and allowed a Mo-
hammedan army to ravage Thessaly.

There was something that made the blood
run cold in the sight of that silent Turkish host
in Macedonia, supported by the Christian na-
tions of Europe, waiting for their officers to
give the signal for an advance ; while on the
other side of the mountain range that divided
the two armies, the Greek herdsmen marched
down the mountain sides in their goat-hair
cloaks, chanting ancient war songs, and danc-
ing the pyrrhic, as they advanced over the
blooming Thessalian fields to fight for Greece
and Christianity.

It is the fashion of modern writers to assume
that the international policy of the world has
reached a high plane of sentiment, and that the
old dominion of brute force has given place to
a generous chivalry based upon moral feeling.

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But the year 1897 discredits this theory. The
King of Greece intervened to prevent Turkey
from landing an army of extermination in
Crete. The situation in the island was appall-
ing. Driven into insurrection by the murder-
ous cruelty of the Turkish soldiery, the Cretans
had almost won their independence, and the
Mohammedan troops were confined practically
to four coast towns. Twenty thousand Greek
subjects were involved in this struggle. More
than three-quarters of the population of Crete
were Christians, related by blood, language,
religion, and habit to the Greek nation. Even
the great powers were forced to take notice of
the infamies perpetrated in the island by Turk-
ish officials, and had threatened the Sultan, who
gave combined Europe permission to establish
such reforms in Crete as they might think
necessary. But the great powers did nothing.
The egoism of international control having been
flattered by the submission of the Sultan, the
dominant statesmen of Europe congratulated
each other upon the diplomatic victory, and
allowed the awful conflict in Crete to go on.
For nine months more Turk and Cretan con-

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tinued to burn and slay. Gradually the little
army of liberty drove the Turks before it. The
independence of Crete was in sight. Then the
Sultan ordered a new army to sail to the island
and annihilate the Christian forces. The great
powers had the right to prevent the threatened
massacre, but refused to act. The King of
Greece begged the governments of Europe to
use their influence and authority, but in vain. It
was not convenient. The concert of the powers
— which had witnessed unmoved the wholesale
massacre of Christians in Armenia — was not
to have its tranquillity disturbed because a few
thousand Christians were to be slaughtered in
Crete.

Christian Europe was too busy with tariffs
and other commercial matters to waste any
thought or effort on the struggle of an ancient
people against merciless oppression. Europe
had spoken once to the Sultan, and the Sultan
had replied politely. What more could be
expected ? These Greeks were a troublesome
people — always making a row about freedom
and human rights generally, and interfering
with the comfort of the European concert. So

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King George of Greece

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAT

London, and Paris, and St. Petersburg, and Ber-
lin, and Vienna, and Rome set their faces hard
against the Greeks ; and even the voice of Glad-
stone, on his death-bed, failed to arouse the
conscience of the nations.

It was then that King George of Greece sent
a torpedo flotilla, in command of his son Prince
George, — the hero of the nation, — to prevent
any Turkish force from landing in Crete, and
at the same time he despatched a small army,
under the command of Colonel Vassos, to
occupy the island in the name of Greece.
There is not a more gallant incident in history.

Instantly the statesmanship of the great
powers was wide awake. The German Em-
peror stormed. The Czar raved. London and
Paris roared with anger. Rome and Vienna
joined in the outburst of indignation. The
concert of the powers had been insulted.
Greece had dared to go to the rescue of the
Christian army in Crete without the permission
of Europe.

There was no languor now. An international
fleet of warships surrounded Crete, and Colonel
Vassos was informed that his army would be

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

starved out unless he surrendered. All the
mighty forces of the nations which had re-
fused to be aroused by the death-cries of
Christianity in Crete were put into action to
punish the contumacious Greeks, for liberty
and justice must ever wait on the convenience
of the European ministries. The spirit of the
threatened Greek commander in Crete was illus-
trated by his refusal to yield even to combined
Europe, unless his king should order him to
•do so, and by this cabled message, which he
.sent to a New York newspaper : —

" Americans well know the Holy Alliance of
old which attempted to enslave the republics
of America. A modern Holy Alliance is
attempting to enslave Cretans under a govern-
ment beyond the pale of modern civilization.
I am sure the sympathy of Americans will be
with the efforts of Greece to rescue her own
people. VASSOS."

Meanwhile the pickets of the Turkish army
in Macedonia and the Greek army in Thessaly
stood in the Mylouna Pass within three hun-
dred feet of each other. A single shot would

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAT

have produced war at any hour of the day or
night.

There was much to see in that old country
of the Greeks. The dapper little military
dandies in the cafes blew dainty wreaths of
cigarette smoke, and talked about the conquest
of Constantinople. The students of the uni-
versity made speeches on the steps of the
palace, menacing the leagued nations of Europe
with the righteous anger of the Greek race.
The leaders of each political party denounced
the leaders of all other parties as liars and
scoundrels, but all agreed that Greece was
capable of vanquishing the Turks even in the
teeth of hostile Europe. Featherheads ! They
bore the great traditions of their past as a
dilettante of the Paris boulevards might stagger
under the armor of Charlemagne.

It was not among the people of the cities
that the substantial patriotism of Greece was
to be seen. Other nations have had this ex-
perience, but the Greeks in their mightiest
days were a people of independent and mili-
tant cities. I heard the multitudes of Athens
scream for war and sweep through the streets

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

half-crazed behind their garlanded flags. But
in the country districts I saw the Greeks of
Marathon and Thermopylae, the men who
made Greece the mistress of the world — sturdy
shepherds, willing to fight in their goatskins
and content with a crust of bread and a cup
of water; pure lovers of the soil for its own
sake, uncouth, innocent of politics, and full of
faith in their king.

"Ah, there is no people like the Greeks!"
said King George, when I interviewed him in
the palace. " They have come from the remot-
est parts of the earth to serve their country.
The old blood is in their veins."

The slender, graceful Dane stood in the middle
of a vast chamber, dressed in a modest blue
uniform.

" The men who are marching past the palace
at this moment are Greeks from the Caucasus,
whose ancestors have lived there for more than
a century. Seven hundred of them have re-
turned to Greece at their own expense to fight
for her. Where can you find another nation
like the Greeks ? They are poor, their country
is small, and their army is a mere fragment,

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

yet they are willing to face the whole of Europe
in arms."

There was a look of sadness in the pale face
of the unhappy monarch. His nephew, the
Emperor of Russia, had turned against him.
His brother-in-law, the future king of England,
had refused to say a word in his favor. The
guns of the nations which had placed the
sceptre in his hands menaced his army in Crete.
The Turkish forces which threatened the frontier
of Thessaly had behind them the moral sup-
port of every powerful Christian state. Yet
the Greeks threatened to rise against a king who
dared to yield to the powers.

" There is nothing more cruel or insensible to
humane sentiment than the European concert,"
he said. " I talk to the newspapers now in the
hope of moving the hearts of civilized peoples,
because the combined governments are deaf to
the voice of justice. The world has never be-
fore witnessed such a spectacle as six powerful
nations, acting in the name of Christian civiliza-
tion, surrounding an island with their warships,
and starving a noble Christian people, whose
only offence is that they have fought for liberty.

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While doing this, these nations are feeding and
upholding the savage Turkish oppressors."

The lines in the King's face grew hard, his
big brown eyes flashed, the veins stood out with
painful distinctness on his temples, his lip trem-
bled, and his voice shook with emotion.

" But the Greeks are unafraid. They are
prepared to make any sacrifice, and no loss can be
too great for them. They will fight barefooted,
they will fight without food, they will fight even
without hope ; and if this conflict with Turkey
begins, they will not cease until they have
achieved victory, or the last fighting man has
fallen."

How the infuriate crowds pressed around
the plain little modern palace, with its guard of
mountain warriors in starched white kilts ! How
the young orators were held up on the shoulders
of their friends to shriek grandiose speeches
against the great powers and dizzily rant about
the past glories of Greece ! How Greek priests
in black hoods waved flags on the palace steps
before the eyes of the frenzied patriots ! And
Greeks returned from France and Italy and
America, and every land under the sun joined in

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that bewildering clamor for war. Even while
a dead Greek prelate was borne through the
streets imcoffined — after the laws of Solon —
the cry for blood was in the air.

Yet who could help loving that warm-hearted,
childlike people, and pitying them as they
swarmed in the very shadows of the Acropolis ?
— for the Greeks of old cast their spears into
the sky only to have them return covered with
blood. But there were no gods now to warn
them of impending fate. The heart of ancient
Greece was there in that rabble, if not her con-
quering strength. It was hard to think that
these little men in modern clothes were the
descendants of the heroes who made the Greek
name feared throughout the world, that this was
the Athens which inspired Byron. And it was
all the more impressive to a writer fresh from
vigorous young America, rising into world-wide
power, to hear the passionate cries of an im-
potent but proud people on the very ground
where their ancestors won unperishable renown,
in sight of the supreme monuments of their
departed greatness. Here Phidias reared the
matchless statue of Athena, of which not a

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

fragment remained. Here art and literature
flourished, and the mind and soul of man burst
into blossom. Here Solon lived, and Perikles
and Socrates and Plato and Demosthenes.
Every foot of the ground had been trampled by
the feet of generations of conquerors. To this
triumphant seat of learning and valor thousands
of pilgrims came to study art and philosophy
and war. Here were laid the enduring founda-
tions of civilization.

The old blood was working in those shrill
crowds, the old passion was there, but the
old power was gone. Athens was the joke
of European courts and the sorrow of all true
lovers of the Greeks.

A Greek troop-ship crowded with army
recruits carried me from the Piraeus to Volo,
the naval base of the King's army in Thessaly.
As we touched various ports on the way, hun-
dreds of herdsmen wearing sheepskins and
goatskins came on board with their rifles.
Soon the decks were packed to their utmost
capacity. Educated Athenians who had enter-
tained me in the fashionable hotels only two
days before, lay on the rough boards among-

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ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

herders of swine. No Greek shrank from the
uniform of a private soldier. There was a
light-hearted enthusiasm in this scene of pic-
turesque squalor that surprised me. Aristocrat
and peasant met on equal terms. Each new
band of fighting herdsmen was welcomed with
shouts of joy. Now and then some excited
mountaineer would discharge his rifle in the air,
whereat all would sing defiance to the Turks.
At the ancient city of Chalkis the armed shep-
herds formed circles on the shore and danced
the pyrrhic to a slow chorus, that well remem-
bered preparation of the Greeks for battle.

In the beautiful Bay of Eubcea lay the tor-
pedo squadron commanded by Prince George,
the idol of the Greek people. I boarded his
flagship, the Canaris, with Mr. Horton, the
American consul at Athens. The prince was
a blond, blue-eyed giant.

" We will fight the whole world, if we must,"
he said ; " but we will never make a cowardly
surrender to a Mohammedan power. As for
me, I am a sailor. I have nothing to do with
politics. I obey the King. The King's word
is my only law."

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Little did I think then that I was looking
upon the man who was to be chosen by Europe
as the reigning Prince of Crete. As we sailed
away on the troop-ship into the Gulf of Atlanta
we could see the sailor prince towering above his
crew like a young war god, and as he tossed his
cap in the air there burst from the squadron a
fierce roar of farewell that could be heard on
the distant shore, beyond which loomed the
august white summit of Mount Parnassus.

After landing at Volo we travelled by train
over the plain of Thessaly to Larissa, where
twenty thousand Greek soldiers were massed.
It was a scene of excitement. Here officers
were drilling the rough shepherds and goat-
herds, there Prince Nicholas was exercising
his battery of artillery; smart troops marched
and countermarched in every direction ; groups
of conspirators from Macedonia and Epirus
noisily discussed the approaching war in the
streets; jaunty officers in new uniforms drank
wine in the restaurants, and loudly boasted of
coming victories ; the kilted mountain soldiers
danced the pyrrhic in their camps — grim bal-
let, presaging death.

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In the distance could be seen the mountains
that separated the two armies, and to the
east of them, the majestic white peaks of
Olympus, rising beyond the wonderful Vale
of Tempe. On the other side of the moun-
tains, not more than twenty miles from La-
rissa, was assembled the army of Edhem
Pasha, the Turkish commander-in-chief in
Macedonia.

The gray-haired Greek general who com-
manded the forces at Larissa assured me that
the Turkish army was a mere ragged mob,
badly armed and insubordinate. The Turks
were deserting in large numbers, and Edhem
Pasha was in despair. The moment the
Greek army crossed the frontier tens of thou-
sands of armed Christians would rise against
the Sultan. The conquest of Macedonia would
be a matter of two or three weeks.

Mounted on a half-starved pony, and accom-
panied by a photographer, I rode into the
famous Mylouna Pass, through which the Turk-
ish army entered Thessaly a few weeks later.
The pass was guarded by two hundred white-
skirted mountaineers who spent most of their

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time dancing the pyrrhic and singing war
songs. The officer in command, a stalwart,
black-bearded Greek, declared that all the
Turks in the Ottoman Empire could not force
the pass.

" But you have no artillery in here," I said.

" Artillery is not necessary," he said. " The
pass is narrow and difficult even for the feet
of mountaineers. There are two hundred of
us — all Greeks. My brother was killed by
the Turks in the next pass only a few years
ago. That is why I am in command here. I
will avenge him."

His black eyes glittered with hatred. His.
nostrils spread as he spoke, and his breast rose.

"You don't know the Greeks," he said..
"You are an American. But these hills know
them. Stay here with me when the fight be-
gins, and you will see what Greeks are like in
battle."

A few weeks afterward the Turks buried him:
and most of his command almost at the very
spot where we stood.

We pushed on through the age-worn and
broken paths in the pass until we reached the

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.highest point, which was the frontier. The
Turkish and Greek sentries paced slowly
before their guard-houses within speaking dis-
tance. The moment we crossed the line that
divided Greece from Turkey we found our-
selves prisoners, with a stout Mohammedan
soldier at each bridle rein. In this fashion we
descended over the rocks to the Macedonian
plain and rode to Elassona. Our escort was
very rough, and refused to allow us to speak
to the peasants we met.

Once in the camp of the Turkish field-mar-
shal, all was changed. A vast army was spread
out on the northern edge of the plain, and white
tents dotted the hillside as far as the eye could
see. There was a gravity and silence about it
all that meant much to a man accustomed to
soldiers in the field. The contrast to the Greek
camp was startling. There was no singing or
dancing, no shouting, no wine-drinking, and no
boasting. I never saw finer troops, nor more
perfect order in an army.

Edhem Pasha was absent from his head-
quarters and I was received by the next in
command, Memdouh Pasha, the redoubtable

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soldier who assisted Osman Pasha in the de-
fence of Plevna. He was a short, square-
headed little man, with a close-cropped beard
and honest eyes. He reminded me strongly
of General Grant. When I presented myself,
he introduced the Turkish war correspondent
of a Constantinople newspaper, who spoke
French and acted as our interpreter.

The Turkish general had food set before
me — for hospitality is a law of the Mohamme-
dan church — and presently, when I had eaten,
he curled his legs under him on a rough divan,
lit a cigarette, offered one to me, and blew
rings of smoke in the air. At that moment I
saw my photographer's camera seized by a sol-
dier ; but Memdouh, by whose orders the thing
was done, looked pleasantly into my eyes.

" How did you leave the Greeks ? " he said.
"What were they doing when you came
away ? "

" Singing and dancing and preparing to
fight."

Memdouh blew another ring into the air,
and watched it ascending to the ceiling. There
was a look of deep peace in his eyes.

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"To fight?"

" Yes."

"Do you think they can fight?"

"They have given some convincing proofs
of their power to fight in the past."

Another ring of smoke. How intently the
soldier regarded the trembling circles as they
floated upward !

" The past ! The Greeks of the past are all
dead. The people you have been visiting are
light-headed. They are degenerates. If the
great powers let us alone, we will settle our
difficulties with Greece forever. They will
conquer and govern us, or we will conquer
and govern them. The Greeks are singing of
war, but wait till the first battle opens, and
see how they will sing then. We are ready
to advance at a moment's notice. The spirit
of Islam is in our army, and you know what
that means. The newspapers and amateur
politicians of Europe speak of Turkey as a
sick nation ; but you have never heard a sol-
dier who has faced our infantry in battle in-
dulge in that sort of talk."

The general settled himself more cosily on

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

his divan, and rolled another cigarette. There
was something very impressive about his quiet,
confident manner.

" You had better stay with us if the war
begins," he suggested. " It will be safer in
our lines, and you will see how good, fighting
Turks handle themselves."

" I am afraid that I would never get my
despatches through to my newspaper. Tur-
key is not benevolently disposed toward the
press."

Memdouh laughed and showed his teeth.
" You are a close observer," he said. " The
Greeks like to be advertised, and therefore
they will help you to get your news to your
journal. Well, you can stay with them if you
prefer, but you will have to describe a defeat."

" I have never been with a defeated army
yet."

" Then you are about to enjoy that experi-
ence."

A walk through the Turkish camp was con-
vincing. The vast columns of infantry, the
wheeling squadrons of Circasian cavalry, the
long lines of Krupp field-guns, the immense

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

stores of ammunition and food, the abundance
of horses, the splendidly organized signal ser-
vice, with its field telegraph equipment, and
the noiseless order of the place spoke plainly
enough. The Turks had little to say. They
are a naturally reticent and sober people.
They bore themselves like trained soldiers.
There was nothing of theatrical sentiment to
be seen. All was plain, useful, and business-
like. I asked an artillery officer how the
Turkish people felt about the approaching
struggle. He read me an extract from a letter
written to him by his brother, a schoolboy : —

" I can bear the news of your death on the
field better than I can bear the news of a
Turkish retreat. If you must choose be-
tween death and flight, dear brother, turn
your face to Heaven."

The officer showed great emotion as he
folded the little sheet of paper and thrust it
back into his pocket.

" If Turkish boys can write like that," he
said, "you can imagine how Turkish men
feel."

The arrival of a London correspondent in

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

Elassona sent a chill down my back. I had
been the first correspondent to cross the
frontier and enter the Turkish lines. That
fact in itself was an important thing for news-
paper headlines. But now I was face to face
with a rival who would undoubtedly claim the
credit unless I reached the telegraph station
at Larissa before him. Mounting my tired
pony I started back to Greece. The English-
man saw the point, and also made for the
frontier. He was mounted on a good cavalry
horse and easily distanced me on the plain,
but when we reached the Mylouna Pass he
was compelled to dismount and lead his horse
over the masses of broken rocks while my
ragged pony moved over the debris with the
skill of a mountain goat. The sun set, but
the starlight was brilliant, and I passed my
rival at the frontier.

The ride down the other side of the pass at
night was a thrilling experience. When the
foot of the pass was reached, the pony fell to
the ground exhausted.

No other horse was to be had. My rival
was moving somewhere behind me. The mud

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

was deep, and twelve miles stretched between
me and Larissa. I started to walk across the
Thessalian plain alone. For an hour I plodded
in the sticky road, listening to the howling of
the savage shepherd dogs that roamed the
darkness in all directions. Gradually the dogs
drew nearer, snapping and snarling as they
approached. Presently I found myself sur-
rounded by the hungry brutes, and could see
them running on all sides. I tried to set fire
to the grass, but it was too wet. The dogs
were within twenty feet of me. Then I heard
the sound of footsteps and of voices. The
dogs retreated. My blood ran cold. Was
my rival about to find me in this ridiculous
position and pass me? I started to run
toward Larissa, but before I had gone two
hundred feet I was overtaken by two Greek
soldiers in starched skirts, who had been sent
by the officer of the guard in the pass to pro-
tect me on my journey. I tried to find out if
my rival had emerged from the mountains,
but they could understand nothing but Greek.
" Englishman ! Ingleskee ! Angleskee ! " I
yelled in despair, making pantomime descrip-

291

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

tions of my rival's beard and eyeglasses. They
shook their heads and laughed.

The walk to Tyrnavos gave me a new in-
sight into the Greek character. As we moved
forward my companions rapturously watched
the stars which shone with startling bright-
ness through the clear air. Nowhere in the
world do the stars seem as close to the earth
as in Greece. The atmosphere is singularly
pure. And several times the soldier on my
right touched my shoulder and silently pointed
to the beautiful Greek sky. I could not under-
stand his hushed sentences, but I knew he was
telling me that the stars belonged to Greece.

At Tyrnavos we got a carriage, and I reached
Larissa at one o'clock in the morning, splashed
with mud from head to foot. My rival had
found a telephone at the frontier, and had sent
a message for London ; but he was not present
to plead his cause, and the sight of my travel-
stained garments softened the heart of the tele-
graph superintendent so that the wire, which
was conveying messages into King George's
sleeping room, was interrupted long enough
to send my message to America.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

The Turks forced the Mylouna Pass and
swept Thessaly clean. Everybody knows the
story of that international tragedy. Neither
King George nor his generals would believe it
possible that Mohammedan soldiery could con-
quer Christian Greece. The combined powers
of Europe gave their countenance to the great
crime, trampling justice and sentiment into the
dust. And when the bloody deed was done,
when Greece was broken and humbled, when
the vanity of the powers was satisfied in Greek
blood, Europe acknowledged the justice of the
Greek cause by making Prince George the
reigning Prince of Crete.

"The concert of Europe cares nothing for
principles or human life when its dignity is
at stake," said King George, when I saw him
again in Athens.

293

CHAPTER XV

Sitting Bull

tHE dirty brown blanket that hung
on the shoulders of Sitting Bull re-
vealed a figure of impressive strength,
and the snaky boldness of the dark eyes that
shone under a low, slanting forehead bespoke the
master mind of the fighting savages of North
America — priest, doctor, politician, woodsman,
warrior.

There was an inexpressible dignity in the
strong face of the old chieftain, as he stood
there on the prairie, with one moccasined foot
thrown lightly forward, while the weight of his
sinewy body rested solidly on the other foot.
The stained feather which fluttered in his
braided black hair, the red and yellow paint
smeared on his cheeks, and the gaudy girdle
of porcupine quills and beads seemed trivial
and out of harmony with the eagle nose,
straight, powerful mouth, and the general sense

294

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

of reserved power, which expressed the born
commander of men.

There he stood — the mightiest personality
of a dying people whose camp-fires were burn-
ing in America before Solomon built the temple
in Jerusalem — native America incarnate, with
knife and tomahawk and pipe, facing a strip-
ling writer from a New York newspaper, and
telling the simple story of his retreating race.
To measure the progress of civilized man, it
is only necessary to meet a savage like Sitting
Bull, to whom the names of Homer, Socrates,
Moses, Galileo, Bacon, Shakespeare, Dante,
Michael Angelo, Beethoven, Alexander, Crom-
well, and Napoleon were meaningless sounds.
Imagine a man born on the American continent
who never heard of Columbus or Washington
or Lincoln ! Not a man whose ancestry was
debased and stunned by ages of slavery, but
the descendant of free people, the heir of a
continent teeming with riches.

This man was born thousands of years after
Athens and Alexandria and Rome were built ;
yet he had roamed over the rich prairies, and
the soil, his greatest heritage, had never spoken

295

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

to him of the treasures germinating in its
depths. Listening for the sounds of approach-
ing conflict, he had not heard the voices of the
unborn wheat and corn that were yet to con-
quer him and his ways. He was able to move
a whole nation to battle, but a compass or a
watch or a telegraph instrument or a newspaper
was a mystery that baffled his imagination.
The scribblings of the correspondent, which
he regarded with disdain, suggested nothing
to his mind of the irresistible power of publicity,
that conqueror of armies and dynasties and
civilizations. To him it was mere foolishness.
But there was one thing which he had
learned, a thing that linked him with the
greatest minds of all the ages — the value of
human liberty. Before that simple prize the
wonders of science, literature, and art shrank
into insignificance. It has been my lot to meet
and talk with most of the great men of my own
time, and I have observed that after all was
said about methods and policies, the supreme
goal of all sane effort was freedom. The
noblest minds in all human history have finally
come to Sitting Bull's rude creed. The painted

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OAT THE GREAT HIGHWAY

nomad, ignorant of Luther, Bruce, Hampden,
Washington, Kosciuszko or Toussaint, knew
the supreme lesson of history — compared to
which other human knowledge is unimportant
—that nothing can compensate men for the
loss of liberty, and that everything else can be
endured but that.

I had paddled down the muddy waters of the
Missouri with Paul Boynton, the adventurous
traveller, who spent his time floating along the
rivers of the world in an inflated rubber suit.
The great Sioux war was over, and I had sat
in the peace council at Fort Yates, where three
thousand surrendered Indians were camped on
the plain, and heard the great fighting chiefs
turn orators. The story of Custer's last charge
and his death was on every tongue. When
Sitting Bull marched across the British frontier
and yielded his warriors as prisoners of war,
he was told that President Garfield would re-
ceive him in the White House at Washington,
and hear from his own lips the grievances of
his people. But Garfield had fallen, and was in
his grave. President Arthur refused to allow
the savage who was responsible for the slaughter

297

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

of Custer and his men to go to Washington.
Sitting Bull was sullen and revengeful. Warned
by signs of discontent and restlessness among
the young fighting men, the military authorities
removed the angry old chief and his family to
Fort Randall, hundreds of miles farther down
the Missouri. There I found him with army
pickets guarding his little camp of thirty-two
tepees, around which Indian braves, squaws,
and almost naked children sprawled in the
sunlight.

Following Sitting Bull to his tepee, I crawled
after him through the covered hole which
served as a door. We were joined by Allison,
the famous white army scout, who acted as in-
terpreter, and by a number of Indians, who
entered at the request of the old chief. We
seated ourselves on the ground around a heap
of burning twigs, Sitting Bull sitting at the
head of the circle. He threw aside his blanket,
under which he wore a fringed shirt of deerskin.
The two wives of the household shook hands
with us, giggled, and paraded several half -nude
and very dirty children, the heirs of the family.

There was silence in the tepee. Sitting Bull

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Sitting Bull.

07V THE GREAT HIGH WAT

laid his tomahawk and knife on the ground, and
began to fill his long pipe with tobacco and
killikinick, the dried scrapings of willow bark.
No one spoke. The chief looked at the fire,
and took no notice of us until he had puffed at
his pipe for a few moments. Then the pipe
was passed around, and as each man smoked,
Sitting Bull watched his face closely. When
the ceremony was ended, the old leader gazed
at the pink and violet flames flickering among
the broken fagots, and pursed his lips. The
wrinkles on his forehead grew deeper, and a
look of shrewdness came into his dark face.
Aboriginal America was about to utter its
thoughts to the millions of men and women
who brought gunpowder and Christianity from
the continents beyond the seas. The chief put
his thumbs together, as though he were com-
paring them — an odd trick that I have noticed
in other Sioux politicians — and began.

" I have lived a long time, and I have seen a
great deal, and I have always had a reason for
everything I have done," he said, in a deep, low
voice — still staring thoughtfully into the fire.
The listening Indians nodded their heads.

299

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

"Every act of my life has had an object in
view, and no man can say that I have neglected
facts or failed to think."

He took a long pull at his pipe, and as the
smoke glided from his lips he watched it mus-
ingly.

" I am one of the last chiefs of the indepen-
dent Sioux nation," he said ; " and the place I
hold among my people was held by my ances-
tors before me. If I had no place in the world,
I would not be here, and the fact of my exist-
ence entitles me to exercise any influence I
possess. I am satisfied that I was brought into
this life for a purpose; otherwise, why am I
here ? "

O ye men of books ! Trace back that
thought to the oldest writers until your search-
ings end in the mists of Mesopotamia and Asia,
and see if there be anything in the ancients or
moderns with a more tidal sweep of logic than
the utterance of this unlettered North American
savage.

" This land belongs to us, for the Great Spirit
gave it to us when he put us here. We were
free to come and go, and to live in our own

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OAT THE GREAT HIGH WAT

way. But white men, who belong to another
land, have come upon us, and are forcing us to
live according to their ideas. That is an injus-
tice ; we have never dreamed of making white
men live as we live.

"White men like to dig in the ground for
their food. My people prefer to hunt the
buffalo as their fathers did. White men like to
stay in one place. My people want to move
their tepees here and there to the different
hunting grounds. The life of white men is
slavery. They are prisoners in towns or farms.
The life my people want is a life of freedom.
I have seen nothing that a white man has,
houses or railways or clothing or food, that is as
good as the right to move in the open country,
and live in our own fashion. Why has our
blood been shed by your soldiers ? "

Sitting Bull drew a square on the ground
with his thumb nail. The Indians craned their
necks to see what he was doing.

" There ! " he said. " Your soldiers made a
mark like that in our country, and said that
we must live there. They fed us well, and
sent their doctors to heal our sick. They said

301

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

that we should live without having to work.
But they told us that we must go only so far
in this direction, and only so far in that direc-
tion. They gave us meat, but they took away
our liberty. The white men had many things
that we wanted, but we could see that they did
not have the one thing we liked best, — free-
dom. I would rather live in a tepee and go
without meat when game is scarce than give
up my privileges as a free Indian, even though
I could have all that white men have. We
marched across the lines of our reservation,
and the soldiers followed us. They attacked
our village, and we killed them all. What
would you do if your home was attacked ?
You would stand up like a brave man and
defend it. That is our story. I have
spoken."

The old chief filled his pipe and passed
it around. Then we crawled out into the sun-
light again. As I was about to leave, Sitting
Bull approached me.

" Have you a dollar ? " he asked

" I have."

" I would like to have it."

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

When the silver coin was produced the
chief thrust it into the bosom of his shirt.

" Have you another dollar ? "

" Certainly."

" I would like to have that, too."

I gave him a second coin, which also dis-
appeared in his shirt.

" Tobacco ? "

A bag of fragrant birdseye followed the
money.

" Ugh ! " said the old man.

When I got into my canoe to resume my
voyage down the Missouri, the chief came to
the water's edge to see me off. He was
dressed with some show of rough splendor,
and was accompanied by his two fighting
nephews. As I looked back I could see him
standing on the gravel shore, his counte-
nance as void of emotion as a bronze mask.
It was the face of old America, unreadable
in victory or defeat.

A man like Sitting Bull brings one face to
face with original human nature. There was
cruelty and cunning in him, but like Lord
Bacon, the greatest philosopher since Plato,

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

he was the product of his ancestry and sur-
roundings. Bacon confessed, as Lord Chief
Justice of England, that he had accepted
bribes, but he asked his country to judge him
by the official usages of that time. Sitting
Bull slew innocent men and women, but he
could point to the moral standards of his race
for justification. Like Phocion, who saved
Greece from the Persians, the Sioux leader
had fought for his race, but unlike Phocion,
he had not sat at the feet of Plato and Di-
ogenes. He was not poisoned and thrown on
alien soil for burial when he counselled peace
for safety's sake, but he drank of the hem-
lock of defeat, and was killed in a brawl by a
policeman.

Before many days my little canoe reached
Fort Hale, and the next day I rode with the
post surgeon over the prairie to the Crow
Creek Indian Agency. We pricked gayly
along a narrow trail on nimble ponies, and the
man of medicine led the way, occasionally
bursting into song : —

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THE GREAT HIGHWAT

"Oh Jean Baptiste ! pourquoi ?
Oh Jean Baptiste ! pourquoi ?
Oh Jean Baptiste ! pourquoi you grease
My little dog's nose with tar ? "

It was a scene of solemn grandeur and still-
ness. Above was the cloudless autumn sky
and the blazing sun, and below was the sea-
like plain, with great scarlet splotches of bul-
berries glowing against the brown buffalo
grass.

The surgeon was in high spirits, and made
his shaggy pony prance while he talked about
the prison-like life of a frontier fort. How
often I have seen these men of science plod-
ding along in the dull routine of garrison
duty, and chafing against the narrow restraints
of military discipline, only to stand some day
on the firing line among the dead and dying,
seeking to save while all others seek to destroy,
and without hope of glory !

Presently we could see signs of the Crow
Creek Agency in the distance, and on the
trail ahead a lonely figure moved on foot
across the prairie. As we drew near I was
surprised to see a tall girlish figure furnished

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

forth in a silk dress, jaunty French bonnet,
high-heeled shoes, and brown kid gloves. A
daintier miss never trod the soil of that sav-
age wilderness. As she tripped on before us
we wondered what could have brought her
there.

When the surgeon spurred his animal to
pass the stranger she turned her head. It
was an Indian girl. The surgeon bared his
head and reined in his pony.

"Why, Zeewee!" he said, "what a picture
you make on the prairie! What are you
doing out here alone?"

The girl smiled, and unconsciously put her
little gloved hand to her bonnet to straighten
it. It was a face of singular refinement, al-
though not beautiful. The nose was straight,
the mouth tenderly curved, the brow broad
and comely, the eyes dark and expressive,
the skin smooth and dusky, and the splendid
black hair banded above the delicately veined
temples. As her lips parted she showed teeth
as white as snow. There was something pro-
foundly sad in the expression of the fresh
young countenance.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

" I am working among my people," she said
in a tremulous voice.

"Poor Zeewee 1 it must be hard on you,"
muttered the surgeon.

"It is the will of God," said the Indian
girl, simply. " I have been chosen, and I
must go on to the end."

We rode on in silence for a few moments,
and when Zeewee was a dot in the distance
behind us, I heard the story of a martyr of
American civilization.

It was the policy of the government to
take the young children of Indian chiefs to
academies in the East and, after educating
them, send them back among their savage
people as object lessons. Zeewee was the
daughter of Don't-Know-How, a friendly chief.
I saw her father's tepee. The Indian agent
had allowed him to carry on a petty trading
business, and some military wag had provided
the chief's doorway with a sign inscribed
"D. K. How, Trader." In her early child-
hood Zeewee was taken from her parents and
placed in the Hampton Institute, in far-away
Virginia.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

In time the young Indian girl forgot the
surroundings of her childhood. The filthy
tepee, the wild dances, the painted braves,
and the fearful nights on the frozen ground
gradually faded from her mind. She remem-
bered only that her father was a man of
importance among his people, and that her
mother loved her and moaned when she was
taken away.

As Zeewee grew up, her teachers exerted
themselves to turn her mind from memories
of the old life. It was a part of the govern-
ment's scientific plan to divorce the children
of the Indians from their past, and thus destroy
any lingering influences which might in the
future serve to wean them back to tribal bar-
barism. All the sweet memories of home,
which shine through the lives of other little
ones, were ruthlessly eradicated. Too many
Indians had gone back to their blankets after
leaving the government schools. So, all that
little Zeewee could do was to carry in her
breast the vague consciousness that somewhere
on her native plain there was a home to which
she would one day return. From time to time

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OAT THE GREAT HIGHWAY

she received messages from her father, who
promised always that he would give a great
feast to welcome her back.

Slowly the Sioux maiden became an accom-
plished young lady, with a smattering of Latin
and music and art, and a love for the feminine
things of civilization. She had romantic ideas
about her race. As she read the story of
Mexico, she dreamed that her people were
like the gentle Aztecs. The tales of the Moors
in Granada fired her imagination. Her heart
thrilled with pride at the thought that the
noble blood of Carthage or of the lost tribes of
Israel might be flowing in her veins ; for history
was full of arguments to prove that the Car-
thaginians and the wandering Jews had reached
the Western continent. Zeewee nursed this
sentiment. She met and associated with edu-
cated white girls, and the spirit of civilization
grew bright and strong in her soul. Every
vestige of the aboriginal instinct died out.
She became as the daughters of the white
race.

Her father ? What was he like ? Tall and
noble and gracious ? Her mother and sisters

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

and brothers ? She tried to recall some im-
pression of her home. Her father was a
chief, a leader, a man of- wisdom and author-
ity. Her mother was the daughter of a chief.
Her ancestors had distinguished themselves in
battle and in council. Her kinsmen were all
of chieftain blood. They would meet her in
the ancestral home on the mighty prairies,
and talk to her about the splendid deeds and
lofty traditions of their tribe.

Zeewee graduated with her class at the
Hampton Institute. The time had come for
her to go to her people. Years of study and
association had developed in her a grace and
dignity of manner rare even among the
daughters of white men. Through the kind-
ness of her Eastern friends, she was able to
dress herself in the latest fashion. For hours
she stood before her mirror arranging her
little fineries, and wondering whether she was
attired in a manner becoming the child of an
ancient line of chieftains. Then she went by
railway to Dakota, and crossed the plain to
Crow Creek.

They led her to the entrance of her father's

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

tepee. She stooped and entered. One glance
at the squalid group of savages crouching about
the fire revealed the awful gulf that was fixed
between her and her people. Her eyes filled
with tears.

" Father ! Mother ! " she cried passionately.
"Speak to me! "

A chorus of grunts expressed the astonish-
ment of the family. The old chief eyed the
gloved and bonneted girl suspiciously.

" My daughter weeps/' he said. " Is she
unhappy ? "

" No ! no ! no ! " wailed Zeewee, throwing
herself upon her father's breast, "but I feel
so strange here."

The wrinkled mother looked at her daughter,
and shrank back into her blanket. Zeewee
turned to her brothers and sisters. They
drew away timidly from the soft-voiced visitor,
and stared at her silken skirt and gloves.

With a sob the girl sank upon the earthen
floor, stripped the gloves from her hands,
tore the bonnet from her head, loosened her
black hair, and shook it out upon her shoulders.

"Brothers! Sisters!" she said gently. "I

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

have come back to my own people, to live
with you and die with you. Christ be my
helper."

That night she slept under a blanket with
her youngest sister. They cried themselves
to sleep in each other's arms — one because
she was civilized, and the other because she
was not.

Thus began the silent martyrdom of Zeewee
— agent of civilization.

312

CHAPTER XVI

On the Firing Line in the Philippines

THERE were days in hoary Manila,
before the little brown men began to
retreat over the hot rice fields and
through the green bamboo jungles, when our
army lay in the trenches around the scorching
city, a semicircle of misery twenty miles long,
harassed night and day by the watchful insur-
gent sharpshooters — days of strain when a
craven-hearted policy and a wooden-headed
military censorship prevented the war corre-
spondents in the Philippines from giving the
American Congress and the American people
a hint of the secrets of that strange scene.

It was a time when the startled native
looked with wondering eyes upon the flag
that was borne across the Pacific as a promise
of liberty; when the race that had not yet
learned to tuck its shirt inside of its trousers

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

had at least learned to look to America as the
great protagonist of human rights, and had
eagerly copied its songs of freedom. Aguinaldo
strutted among his generals at Malolos.
Otis dawdled at his desk in Manila. The two
armies faced each other and waited. No word
of surrender from Malolos. No word of con-
ciliation from Washington. The correspond-
ents in the iron grip of the censor.

Yet one afternoon the two peoples spoke to
each other across the cruel barrier of race and
language, and I, looking on, heard the voice in
which age speaks to age.

It was one of those spectacles in which the
souls of men rise mysteriously into concord
above the clamors and hatreds of war, touched
by the central flame of universal brotherhood.

The Kansas regiment occupied the trenches
on the left of our line, and Colonel Funston, the
gamecock of the army, had kept his men close
to their work. It was a perilous position, for
just beyond the screen of trees, on the other
side of an open stretch of rice fields, was massed
the main army of the Philippine Republic.
The intrenchments of the enemy were so close

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

that we could see them plainly, and the pale
blue figures moving here and there in the
edge of the woods. On the extreme left were
advanced breastworks of sandbags to guard
against a " night rush." Behind the Kansas
line was a venerable church. The roof was
shattered by shells from Dewey's fleet, the
chancel rail was converted into a harness rack,
and the side altar into a telegraph operator's
table, the vast stone floor covered with beds of
officers, and the sacred images roughly piled
in a distant corner. In front of the church
door a cloud of smoke arose from the cook's
tent.

The haggard Americans sat or walked in the
trenches where they had slept for two weeks
without relief. A few looked over the rough
brown earthworks at the parched fields shim-
mering in the fierce sunlight. The weary offi-
cers walked up and down the line, scanning the
enemy from time to time with their glasses.
Occasionally a too venturesome man would
attract the attention of the insurgents, and a
volley of Mauser bullets would drive him to
cover.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

An infantry band sent from the city to cheer
our tired men lilted gayly in the rear. It was
the first music that had been heard there since
the outbreak of war between the United States
and the Philippine Republic. Now and then
a pair of soldiers would waltz to the music
in the trench, crouching in fantastic attitudes
to avoid the aim of the enemy's marksmen. A
few converted their tin cups into drums, and
beat time with their knives and forks. Then
the music changed from gay to grave. At
last the concert was ended and the band
marched back to the city.

Suddenly a strain of music was heard from
the enemy's line — sweet, quavering chords
that sounded strangely familiar. Instantly
every man in the Kansas regiment was alert.
There was a roar of laughter in the trenches.
The imitative spirit of the Filipinos was the
joke of the army.

" By thunder ! " yelled a tall Kansan, " they
can't even let us have a little music to ourselves.
The niggers have brought their band to the
front."

" Wonder what in hell they're playing ? "

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

cried another. " Bet it's the ' Aguinaldo
March.' Listen ! "

Across the brown stretch of dead rice came
the solemn sound of the hymn, " Stand up for
Jesus."

" Nary a stand-up here, with nigger rifles
pinted at us," roared the tall Kansan.

" Invitation respectfully declined," shouted
the other.

" Better keep down, boys," said an officer,
sharply. " It's a trick. They'll open fire in a
minute. Don't show your heads."

Still the sound of the stately tune came swell-
ing through the air, now soft and tender, now
loud and passionate.

" Stand up ! stand up for Jesus,
Ye soldiers of the cross ;
Lift high His royal banner,
It must not suffer loss."

There was a sudden silence in the trenches.
Memory was at work. It was a voice from
home, a message from dear old Kansas, an echo
of other days and gentler scenes.

The music ceased. Every man listened.
There was a hush in the air, and the descending

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sun cast long shadows in the field. Through
the tangled masses of trees that hid the Philip-
pine musicians, a few figures could be seen
moving boldly out on the enemy's works.

Then a beautiful thing happened. From the
distant camp came a rolling throb of drums, and
the insurgent band swung grandly into "The
Star-spangled Banner." There was a moment
of yawning surprise, and then the whole Kansas
regiment, stretched out for nearly half a mile,
leaped from the trenches and stood on top of the
earthworks. Every soldier drew his heels to-
gether, uncovered, and placed his hat over his
left breast. It was the regulation salute to the
national anthem. As the music rolled forth,
clear, high, splendid, the Kansans straightened
themselves and remained motionless while the
enemy continued to play the one supreme psalm
of America. The whole line was exposed. Not
a man carried a weapon in his hand. Yet not
a shot was fired. The Filipinos watched the
bareheaded American regiment, and played on.
It was one of those psychological moments when
some profound sentiment unites thousands of
hearts ; when the pentecostal spirit descends, and

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the passions of men are stilled in the presence
of a common altar.

" Oh say, does the star-spangled banner still wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ? "

What was it that stirred the insurgent Asiatics
to play that anthem ? What was it that inspired
a whole regiment to bare its breast to the enemy
in order to salute the music ? What power held
the forces of death in leash while Kansan and
Malay faced each other that burning day ? Why
did the rugged men in khaki shed tears ? And
when the anthem was done, and the splendid
line still stood erect and uncovered on the breast-
works, why did that roar of applause ascend
from the Philippine camp ?

Never was there a loftier scene on a field
where men were met to shed each other's blood
— a noble challenge, nobly met.

When it was over there was an interval of
silence, but as the light died out of the sky, and
the stars appeared, the sound of rifles was heard
again.

" My heart was in my throat when I heern
them play that," said the tall Kansan, as he took
careful aim over the earthwork.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

I tried to cable a description of that event to
my newspaper, but the dull military censor was
stony-hearted.

" That's not news," he said, " that's poetry —
and poetry don't go."

Darkness descended on the shrivelled rice
fields and green thickets, and the three brigades
of McArthur's division stretched out in irregular
line, with the centre just in front of the venera-
ble church of La Loma and its war-trampled
graveyard ; a group of American officers took
a last twilight look at the distant intrenchments
of Aguinaldo's army from the top of the
stone cemetery wall, at the side of which lay a
ditchful of bones, leprous white, the relics of
generations whose descendants had failed to pay
rent for the grisly hospitality of graves. Inside
of the massive church walls the flickering light
of lanterns and candles fell on rows of tired sol-
diers sprawled on the stone flooring — one stal-
wart fellow snoring peacefully on the high altar
itself — and on the surgeons preparing stretch-
ers and bandages. In the stained and dusty

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ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

sacristy General McArthur and his staff ate
wedges of canned beef and hardtack off a
wooden mantel. Everywhere signs of grim
preparation for the advance of the whole divis-
ion at daybreak toward Malolos, the insurgent
capital — war correspondents examining their
cameras, chatting with their field couriers, or
laughing at the young woman correspondent
who had just appeared, artillerymen carrying
ammunition for their batteries, the confused
sound of passing men and horses. It was to
be steady fighting all the way to Malolos, for
four rivers and scores of intrenched lines lay
across the thirty miles between us and Aguin-
aldo's seat of government, with twenty thousand
or thirty thousand troops — so our prisoners
said — against our one division.

And yet the young woman persisted in stay-
ing. She had come to see the battle open with
the dawn, and nothing could induce her to go
back to Manila. No one knew much about her
except that she was from San Francisco, and
was supposed to write occasionally for a Cali-
fornia newspaper. Most of the officers had a
nodding and some of them a speaking acquaint-

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

ance with her. But no one could shake her in
her determination to stay all night and watch
the death-grapple in the morning. Hints were
useless. There was no place for her to sleep —
she found two chairs and stretched herself out
on them. There was nothing for her to eat —
she produced a sticky lump of chocolate and
munched it. There might be a night attack by
the enemy — she drew an army revolver from
her pocket. The place was full of tropical fever
— she brought forth some quinine pills, and took
a sip of brandy from a dainty cut-glass flask.

Then she shut her teeth hard together, closed
her eyes, settled herself down on the two chairs,
and ignored the indignant officers, who retreated
for consultation. Her small white features were
set. She was going to see that fight.

It was a place haunted by memories of Span-
ish monks and native conspiracy ; for the little
white-shirted men who knelt at that shrine often
carried knives sharpened for the throats of the
friars. In the darkness around the church the
soldiers moved like phantoms among their horses,
and a neglected camp-fire made the shadows of
the trees waver on the broken walls. The skulls

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and bones of the dishonored dead gleamed hid-
eously in the trampled grass.

A lieutenant approached the young woman,
and touched her on the shoulder. She looked
up without moving. Her ankles were crossed
gracefully, her hands were clasped behind her
slender neck, and her sailor hat was thrust defi-
antly over her broad, smooth brow.

" It will be a frightful sight," he said. " I hope
you will go back to your hotel. This is no place
for you. It is horrible to think of a woman look-
ing at the slaughter of human beings. You can-
not imagine how appalling it will be."

She set her hat straight with a coquettish
touch and smiled.

"All the better copy for my paper," she
answered, with a yawn that showed her pretty
teeth. " Besides, it will be a new experience."

" But the danger ? "

"The only serious danger that confronts me
is the danger that my paper may be beaten.
That would be simply frightful." She drew
her mouth up in a dainty moiie, and stared
absently into the night, as if she had forgotten
the lieutenant.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

The officer made a gesture of despair.

" Have you considered the chances of defeat,
of capture ? "

" Yes," said the young woman, languidly. " I
have considered all, all, all. If I am captured,
I will interview Aguinaldo. If I am killed, my
paper will print my portrait and a melting ac-
count of my death. You cannot frighten me
away. I have come to stay."

" But don't you see" — and he stamped his
foot till the spurs jingled — "that you are a
source of embarrassment to us all ; that we feel
ourselves responsible for your safety ; that —

" Well, I like that ! " remarked the young
woman, sitting bolt upright, and tossing her
little head back. " Who asked any one to be
responsible for me?"

She stretched herself out on the chairs again,
and closed her eyes. The lump of chocolate
rolled from her lap to the ground. The lieu-
tenant picked the clammy fragment up and
held it out between his finger tips.

" You — er — you dropped this thing," he said.

The eyelids opened, and her dark eyes
regarded the outstretched hand for a moment.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

" You may keep it," she said, and closed
her eyes again, with the shadow of a smile
trembling about her mouth.

With an indignant gesture, the lieutenant
flung the chocolate against the cemetery wall,
and strode back to his fellow officers.

" It's no go," he said. " She's going to stay
till the fight opens; she has the cheek of a —
oh, damn her ! let somebody else try."

At this point I was requested to use my in-
fluence as a newspaper man to remove the
young woman from the fighting front of the
army.

" Flatter her," suggested the lieutenant.
"Lay it on thick — that generally catches a
woman."

"Tell her that her hair is coming out of
curl," said a grizzled old captain.

"And that the graveyard air will ruin her
complexion," added the lieutenant.

" Oh ! " said the young woman, when I ex-
plained my mission. " So you would like me to
retire and leave the news of the battle to you ? "

"Really, nothing was farther from my
thoughts than — "

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ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

" Oh, of course not. Tricks in all trades
but ours. You wouldn't deceive a poor trust-
ing girl, would you ? "

She was really beautiful as she lay there in
the half-light, mocking me, with her eyes half
closed, and her jaunty hat knocked on one
side of her head.

"And you are not afraid to look upon the
horrors of an actual battlefield, to see men
blown limb from limb, perhaps?"

" I am afraid of nothing but my newspaper
rivals. Now, please leave me."

She closed her eyes again, and pretended to
sleep, but I could see that she was watching
me between the soft lashes.

" Infernal cat," growled the lieutenant, when
I explained my failure.

Just then we heard a gasp, followed by a
scream. The young woman was standing on
a chair, with her skirts drawn up, and a look
of terror in her face.

" Oh ! oh ! oh ! " she wailed.

"What's the matter?"

"Rats! Two of them! Big, hairy, black
rats ! There they are now — oh ! oh ! "

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

"Place is full of rats," said the lieutenant,
eagerly. " Hundreds of them, thousands of them
— insurgents used to live on them — tropical rats
— graveyard rats — worst kind — they're poi-
sonous— worse than snakes — much worse."

" U-u-ugh ! " gulped the young woman.

"There is still time to go back to Manila,"
I suggested.

" If I could only get a horse," she said
meekly. " I can't walk back. If I had a
horse, I would, I, I " — oh woman ! how hard
it is to yield! — "I think I would go at once."

Ten minutes later we saw her ride out into
the road, and turn her horse's head toward
Manila.

"Whew!" said the lieutenant; "don't women
beat hell? — face a regiment, but run from a
mouse."

We were now in front of Malolos. Mc-
Arthur's division had swept the army of the
Philippine Republic backward for a week, and
the stained and weary regiments were standing
in the early morning twilight ready for the
last charge. They had fought through bam-

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boo jungles, waded rivers and swamps, carried
line after line of intrenchments, stormed forts,
and tramped over the ashes of burning vil-
lages, leaving their dead and wounded behind
them.

The seat of the rebel government was now
before us, and we could see the roof of
" Aguinaldo's palace" — a monastery attached
to a church — over the green tree-tops.

Right in front of our line was a formidable
stretch of bomb-proof earthworks, with clear
ground before them. This was to be the
scene of the final conflict — the death-thrust
of the war.

Every source of information open to us
pointed to one serious fact — twenty thousand
armed Filipinos, led by the terrible little in-
surgent president and his ablest generals, were
in front of us. All the rollicking gayety that
hitherto marked the advance of our forces had
vanished. Each man seemed to feel that he
was standing in the shadow of death. There
was a brooding sense of peril in the air.

My veteran field courier, a tall, lank Connect-
icut Yankee, hung close to me with my horse.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

" Might hev t' run," he said. "Ye ben hurt
twict on this march, 'n' better look out fer
t' third time. Third time's bad luck, 'nless
ye've crost a river er seen a black cat. Them
there airthwuks 's full er hell 'n' damnation -
jam full er niggers, sure! Dead correspond-
ents ain't no good to newspapers, sure! I'll
keep th' hoss clus t' ye as I ken. Don't mat-
ter much 'bout me, but ye got t' git yer story
t' Manila."

Our skirmish lines began to creep out
through the trees to the edge of the open
rice fields that lay between us and the great
masses of new brown earth, behind which
the strength and valor of the insurgent army
crouched.

A signal from the general, and our batteries
began to rain shells at the enemy's works.
Bomb after bomb burst over the breastworks.
The little machine gun lent to the army by
Admiral Dewey ripped out a stream of bullets.

All was silent in the insurgent line. Not a
shot in reply. Not a sign of life. Our guns
raked the tops of the ridged mounds in vain.
They provoked no reply.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

" Cunnin' divils," whispered my courier, as
he bit off a piece of plug tobacco and settled
it in his cheek. " Goin' t' wait till we git in
clost, 'n' throw lead 'nter us 't p'int-blank range."

The bugles sounded loud and harsh. The
Kansas regiment moved out into the clear
field, with the Third Artillery on the left and
the Pennsylvania regiment on the right. A
dusty group of war correspondents walked
twenty feet behind the Kansans. The sun
glared over the bamboo woods to the right
where Hale's brigade was silently advancing
to flank the enemy. Not a sound disturbed
the stillness of the scene but the tread of
feet on the burnt grass and irrigation ridges
that checkered the fields over which our line
pushed on toward the mysterious stronghold.

Once more the bugles rang out, and our regi-
ments threw themselves flat on the hot ground.
Colonel Funston and Colonel Hawkins stood
on the railway embankment between their
commands, and studied the noiseless earth-
works through their glasses. It was a ner-
vous situation. We were getting into close
range. At any moment the foe might rise

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

behind that sloping bulwark, and pour volley
after volley into our unprotected ranks. Again
the bugles commanded, and our line arose, mov-
ing ahead with careful, stealthy steps.

Closer, closer we drew. The faces of the
soldiers were white. They carried their rifles
in both hands, ready for instant work. As
they approached the grim fortification they
lifted their feet catlike, and bent their bodies
forward. There was a thrill of expectant dis-
aster in the ranks, but they went on and on,
triggers lightly pressed, and rifles half raised.
We were now within a hundred feet of the
enemy. The silence was horrible. For a
moment the brown line wavered, and was
steadied by the sound of the bugles.

A column of black smoke ascended from
" Aguinaldo's palace." Was it the signal for
the last supreme act of resistance ? Every
man drew himself together for the first volley
from the earthworks. It was a moment of
agony. We were only twenty-five feet away.
I could hear my heart thumping against my
ribs, and confess that I looked for a stone or
clod to hide me.

CW THE GREAT HIGHWAY

With a shriek our line suddenly lurched for-
ward and swept up the slanted fortification.
The trenches were empty. The enemy had
retired in the night, and not a man was
in sight. A sighing sound arose from the
cheated regiments as they halted in surprise
on the brink of the vacant trenches, then a
hoarse shout of laughter burst from the
soldiers.

At that moment there was a deafening roar
in the town, and the black column of smoke
rising from " Aguinaldo's palace " changed to
a waving tongue of flame. Dense masses of
smoke rolled up in every direction. The
thunder of cannon and the steady volleying of
infantry seemed to be mingled in the terrific
clamor. Gradually the sound of battle swelled
and the signals of savage conflict spread.

Had Hale's brigade trapped the insurgent
army in the capital and forced it to fight ?

A company of Kansans dashed along a curv-
ing lane that led straight toward the fire-
enveloped headquarters of Aguinaldo. Colonel
Funston followed, and I joined him. As we ran
past the thatched huts and plaster houses, we

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

could see waves of fire and smoke driving over
the roof-tops in the town. Malolos was in
flames. The din of fighting was demoniac.
Volley followed volley with lightning rapidity.
The sound of wailing voices pierced the tumult.
Yells of terror, cries for help, could be heard.
Forked flames lit the smoke everywhere.

As we approached the "palace" we could
see the fire eating through the immense roof.
There was a low barricade of stones thrown
across the street at the entrance to the plaza in
front of the burning monastery, where the
insurgent congress had defied the United
States. A volley was fired from behind the
barricade, and as the bullets sang over our
heads, Funston ordered the Kansans to reply
with two volleys and charge.

The little colonel swung his hat in the air
and yelled as he rushed down the street at the
head of his men, with clinking spurs and bol-
stered revolver leaping at his belt.

" Give them hell ! hell ! hell ! "

A fierce Kansas scream burst from the sol-
diers. They were following the hero of the army.

Now a war correspondent in these times must

333

ON THE GREAT RIGHTS AT

always remember the value of big headlines.
To be the first man to enter the conquered capi-
tal of the Philippine Republic — even though
the honor was won by a yard — would give my
paper a chance to thrill the multitude with a
sense of its sleepless enterprise. I raced with
Funston as he bounded straight towards the
enemy's barricade. Gradually I gained on
him. We could hear the eager Kansans pant-
ing behind us as they dashed along the street.
We reached the little wall of stones almost to-
gether, and I cleared it at a leap, just ahead
of the colonel.

There was no trace of the insurgent army to
be seen. We had been tricked again. The
glare of burning houses shone on all sides of
the plaza. The enemy had fired the town
before leaving, and the volley from the barri-
cade was the farewell of the torchmen left to
complete the work of destruction. Scores of
Chinamen, driven from their homes by the con-
flagration, ran about the plaza shrieking for
water. The battle sounds were merely the
explosions of thousands of air-tight bamboo
beams in the blazing native houses.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

Suddenly a mighty column of fire rose from
the " palace," the roof fell in with a roar, throw-
ing up a swirl of sparks, and the home of the
Philippine government was a pile of smoking
ruins.

" W'an't no heroes made in that battle," said
my courier when he found me, " 'cepting, o'
course, th' army has hold of th' telegraph wires ;
'n' repetations 's easy made when there's a good
stout censor 'n guard."

335

CHAPTER XVII

A Race with a Woman for the Cable

TIME was when the war correspondent
had only men to contend against, men
— and censors. The adventurous
scout of the press could swing himself into the
saddle and ride on the rim of great events
with a light heart, knowing the ways and
weaknesses of the male intellect. But with
the advent of woman came sorrow. The swish
of the journalistic petticoat on the edge of the
military camp meant the hidden leaking of news,
and a correspondent with a clever wife beside
him was a man to be dreaded by his rivals.
For a woman, when she cannot drag forth
the secrets of an army by strength, will make
a sly hole in some man's discretion, and the
news will run out of itself.

Not that I am opposed to the presence of
woman wherever she may seek to follow for-
tune, — for I have yet to see the place or the

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

company that was not bettered by her influ-
ence, — but the competition of men and women
in war reporting occasionally results in the odd-
est situations imaginable; and sometimes the
contest of beauty and flashlight intuitions
against energy and experience develops phases
of human nature undreamed of outside of the
pages of a novel. The tender eye and be-
guiling tongue of a woman will often upset
the careful plans of the boldest and sharpest
male correspondent that ever rode through a
battle or hated a censor. He may spend the
dreadful day on the firing line, and return to
the telegraph station, half-dead with hunger
and fatigue, only to find that she has wheedled
the heart of the news out of army headquar-
ters, and anticipated his despatch by several
precious hours.

I have seen women war correspondents on
the firing line more than once, although I have
never read an account of a battle written by
a woman that had anything of the ring and
dash of the real fighting. Curiously enough,
women seldom show any signs of timidity or
shockability on the battlefield. Once in the

337

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

presence of an actual conflict, they are as
eager as the men to see the slaughter pressed,
and it sometimes happens that officers are
compelled to restrain them from leaving the
trenches and rushing forward with storming
parties. The sight of slain men seems to
move them no more than others.

It is not often that a war correspondent has
to engage in a physical race with a woman ;
but that ungallant and trying experience fell
to my lot in Manila.

The adventure came about in this way : The
commissioners sent by President McKinley to
study the Philippine question in the islands
were about to issue a proclamation to the
natives declaring the purposes of the United
States. This was to be the first definite an-
nouncement of our policy in our new posses-
sions. The importance of the proclamation
was enormously increased by the struggle be-
tween the political parties at home, over the
Philippine question. One New York news-
paper had authorized its correspondent to
offer two thousand dollars for an advance
copy of the document. There was deep in-

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

trigue for mastery in the matter. The phras-
ing of the proclamation would disclose the
ultimate object of the first war of conquest
waged by the United States. It would be
the keynote of the bloody contest. The cor-
respondents watched each other jealously, but
with an innocent air of indifference to the
approaching event, such being the artful
methods of newsgathering.

On the day the proclamation was issued, a
group of anxious and uneasy correspondents
were gathered in the splendid residence of
the Philippine Commission, waiting for the
president to bring the first printed proofs for
distribution. In my eagerness to seize an
advantage, I stood on the doorstep of the
building, ready to capture the first copy and
dash on to the office of the censor, two miles
away. My little native carriage was care-
fully turned with the horse's head toward the
city, and the swarthy Tagalog driver sat
with the reins in his hands waiting for the
signal.

Through the marble-paved corridor I could
see a slight, girlish figure seated in the great

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

dim room where visitors were received, and I
recognized her as the bright-witted young wife
of a correspondent who had been disabled by
a poisoned thorn piercing his leg. Her dainty
army hat lay on the table beside her, and
although she was apparently looking out on
the dreaming blue sea through the open win-
dow, I knew that she was watching my every
movement. She, too, was waiting for a copy
of the proclamation, and the incessant tapping
of her little foot on the polished floor gave
warning that the race would be a bitter one.
Her carriage stood in the garden, and I noticed,
with alarm, that her horse was a finer animal
than my poor, thin steed, which had been shot
five times in one day — a creature with a spirit
too great for his grotesque body.

Hardly had the president of the commission
reached the door when the proclamation was
in my hands and my carriage was whirling me
off to the censor, without whose approving
signature nothing could be cabled from Manila ;
but as I started, I could see my slender rival
leap from her chair, snatch up her hat, and
run toward the door, where the astonished

340

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

president stood with a bundle of printed sheets
under his arm.

It was to be a race. Looking back through
the dust that flew from the wheels, I could see
the graceful woman in khaki skirt, blue jacket,
and rakish army hat, bound into her carriage
and, taking the reins up, lay her whip savagely
over her horse's shoulders.

" For God's sake go faster ! " I cried to my
driver. " Don't let that horse pass us."

The wiry little native stood up and lashed
the horse into a gallop. I whipped my pencil
out and began to skeletonize the proclamation,
striking out "and," "the," "a," and other
words easily supplied in New York. Every
moment, every stroke would count in the
struggle. The houses on each side of the
street seemed to fly as we rattled madly along
the Calle Reale — flaring grogshops, white
villas, hospitals, barracks, crazy shanties — but
as I turned, I could see my rival gaining on me.
She was leaning forward, with the reins held
tight, and the whip swishing fiercely, the rim
of her military hat blown up by the wind and
her hair flying free about her temples.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

" Faster ! faster ! " I shouted. " Fifty pesetas
if we reach the palace first ! "

My poor, long-suffering horse! Even now
I shudder when I recall the sound of that
terrible whip on his bony sides. With a snort
of agony, the animal strained his muscles and
tore along the rough road like a runaway. I
stood up and urged the driver, and every
passionate word I spoke added to the fury of
his whip. We began to draw away from our
pursuer. The carriage creaked and swayed
from side to side. Once we narrowly escaped
a collision.

But soon I could hear the swift clamor of
my opponent's wheels, and my heart sank as I
saw that she was again drawing near. To be
beaten by a woman ! The thought drove the
hot blood to my head. To be outwitted by a
woman in an intrigue was one thing, but to be
defeated on the open highway — the perspira-
tion rolled down my face in great drops.

" Faster ! " I shrieked, thumping my driver
between the shoulders. "A hundred pesetas
if we win ! "

The frightened driver turned his head and

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grinned. His teeth were stained red with
betel-nut, his lips were white, his eyes rolled.

" Horse mucho tire," he gasped, as he swung
his lash ferociously.

The grinding of the wheels behind us grew
louder. My horse was covered with foam,
and his flesh quivered as he galloped, shaking
the ramshackle carriage violently in the flight.
The noise of the struggle began to attract
attention. Squads of soldiers ran out of their
barracks, invalids leaned out of the hospital
windows, natives stood still and stared, store-
keepers cheered in their doorways, a horde of
yelping dogs raced after us in the trailing
dust, and — Heaven be gentle to me! — Gen-
eral Lawton sat in front of his headquarters,
and laughed when my hat blew off. The
street seemed to reel in the dazzling sunlight.
The fury of the flight made the wheels jump
as they struck the stones, and I was bumped
about on the seat until my teeth chattered.

Now I could see her horse's outstretched
head at my side, hear its desperate breathing,
and see the curling end of her lash as it shot
out. Her little figure sat high on the seat

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and her feet were braced against the dash-
board. Her lips were pressed together and
her eyes shone with excitement. Her face
was deadly white. She paid no attention to
me, but gazed straight ahead at the road and
laid on the lashes. The wind had forced her
hat on the back of her head and the army
buttons on her jacket sparkled in the sun-
light. The edges of the white proclamation
fluttered at her bosom.

So, for the space of nearly five minutes, we
swept on in a rip-roaring, crashing, mad tilt
for victory, losing or gaining inch by inch.
My driver moved our carriage zigzag to block
the street. Chivalry had vanished; courtesy
was forgotten. It was a struggle for news,
fierce and sexless — the old-style man against
the new-style woman. To surrender the road
to my rival meant a defeat that could not be
explained by cable. The modern newspaper
and its thirsty presses take no account of the
amenities of life. It has one supreme law
— send the news and send it first. Friend-
ship, home, health, and life itself, if necessary,
must be sacrificed in the effort.

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The dust choked us ; the sunlight dazzled
our eyes ; the jolting made my fever-weakened
body ache. My hair was tossed and filled
with flying dirt. The barking of the dogs
and the wild plunging of the horses swelled
the strain of misery.

" Faster ! " I screamed, as I clung to my
seat. " I'll give you the horse if you beat
her!"

The wiry driver crouched as he took a new
hold on the reins for a final burst of speed.
My rival stood up and bent over the dash-
board. Her brows were drawn together, and
the corners of her mouth drooped. The deli-
cate nostrils were dilated. Every line showed
the thoroughbred. The horses were almost
abreast, and the wheels clashed harshly.

"See-kee!" snarled the driver to the pant-
ing steed, "see-kee! see-kee!"

There was a loud crash, and I was thrown
out of my seat. We had run into a heavy
wagon drawn by a water buffalo ; one shaft
was tangled in the rope harness, and the buf-
falo was lunging angrily at my horse's flank.

I looked up and saw a dainty hand waving

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farewell to me. My rival had a clear road,
and was forcing the pace. She looked back
for a moment as I stood there in the street.
Her face was radiant. Again she shook her
hand, with an air of saucy defiance that mad-
dened me.

In a few moments we extricated ourselves
and started in pursuit. The horse was lame
and his spirit was gone. Again the pencil
struck word after word from the proclamation.
A woman had disgraced me in a race; per-
haps experience and skill would recover the
lost ground. She would forget to prepare her
despatch in advance and would have to wait
in the censor's office. I might steal in, get
the censor's signature and be off for the cable
office before she could realize the situation. I
was dealing with a clever woman and would
need my wits about me.

We passed out of the Calle Reale, and skirt-
ing the green meadow where the noble Rizal
was bound and shot for loving his country
too well, drove through the Lunetta, — that
music-haunted strip of sea-park where Spain
used to slaughter native patriots by the score.

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Dewey's white warships rode at anchor in the
blue flood, the ramparts and guns of- the
"walled city" — the ancient part of Manila —
rose before us, but there was no sign of my
rival. Over the creaking drawbridge we rolled,
and through the little, sentinelled gate, into the
narrow, paved streets with their quaint Spanish
houses. And presently we drew up in front of
the stone-and-plaster palace from which the
United States waged war for the conquest of
the Philippines. A leap from the carriage, a
dash through a stately marble entrance hall,
up a flight of stairs, past the stern, sculptured
face of Magellan, along a corridor lined with
the offices of the army staff, and I stood breath-
less and hatless before the bald, spectacled,
cold-eyed censor.

In the next room sat my rival, bending over
her despatch, the busy pencil trembling in her
fingers. Her face and clothes were covered
with dust. Her hair was in disorder. Her
bosom heaved.

Throwing the proclamation on the censor's
desk, I told him that I would send it all, and
begged him to be quick.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

" All ? " he roared. " All that ? You're going
to cable the whole thing ? "

My blood danced. I looked quickly at my
rival. She would hear.

"Yes — all," I answered in a low voice, and
with a pantomime appeal for secrecy.

"All?" he shouted, so that every word could
be heard in the other room. " Do you mean
to say that" — and he grew shriller at every
word — "you intend to send the whole proc-
lamation ? "

The enemy was warned. I saw her start.
The color flamed in her pale face. She
gathered her despatch up and waited. Her
foot beat a sharp tattoo on the floor. Her head
was thrown back impatiently. The race was
to be resumed.

How slow the censor was ! He drew enclos-
ing lines about the proclamation with a blue
pencil, and wrote his initials on each page.
Then he yawned.

" It'll cost money to cable that," he said, as
he languidly scanned the despatch.

"Quick!" I urged. "Let me have it.
Every second counts."

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

The censor frowned, and adjusted his spec-
tacles.

"We don't do things in a hurry here," he
said. " I must see what there is in this des-
patch. The newspapers are too sensational,
and the general won't stand any nonsense."

There was something maddening in the
easy insolence of the man. I could have
strangled him with pleasure — two x miles and
a half to the cable office, and my foe in the
next room ready to follow me. But at last
he surrendered the despatch, and I made for
the street.

My horse was tired out. I seized a carriage
standing close by, and ordered my driver to
start at a gallop for the main cable office on
the outskirts of the city. There was a branch
office nearer, but it would be dangerous to
let a woman get to the main office alone. Who
could tell what gentle arts of persuasion and
flattery, what tear-in-the-voice diplomacy might
accomplish? A minute lost or won, even a
second, would settle the fight for possession
of the cable. The man who competes with a
woman must be sure that she does not get

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" All ? " he roared. " All that ? You're going
to cable the whole thing?"

My blood danced. I looked quickly at my
rival. She would hear.

"Yes — all," I answered in a low voice, and
with a pantomime appeal for secrecy.

" All ? " he shouted, so that every word could
be heard in the other room. " Do you mean
to say that" — and he grew shriller at every
word — " you intend to send the whole proc-
lamation ? "

How slow the censor was ! He drew enclos-
ing lines about the proclamation with a blue
pencil, and wrote his initials on each page.
Then he yawned.

" It'll cost money to cable that," he said, as
he languidly scanned the despatch.

"Quick!" I urged. "Let me have it.
Every second counts."

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

The censor frowned, and adjusted his spec-
tacles.

"We don't do things in a hurry here," he
said. " I must see what there is in this des-
patch. The newspapers are too sensational,
and the general won't stand any nonsense."

There was something maddening in the
easy insolence of the man. I could have
strangled him with pleasure — two ' miles and
a half to the cable office, and my foe in the
next room ready to follow me. But at last
he surrendered the despatch, and I made for
the street.

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between him and his base of operations. A
thousand subtle forces alien to the slow male
mind may trip and trap him. I had learned
by bitter experience that a woman will out-
reach a man by the very elements which are
set down by philosophy as her weaknesses.
She can arouse sympathy and compassion
when a man will excite ridicule. She can
grasp an advantage, however shadowy it may
be, and convert it into a solid thing. She
can see when a man is blind. When her soul
is aroused she fears nothing and knows noth-
ing but that she is a woman, and that she is
bound to have her way. In short, she is the
most dangerous, the most cunning, the most
wilful, and the most damnably adorable rival
that ever confronts the male war correspondent.
We swept back through the mediaeval
streets, thundered over the venerable draw-
bridge that spans the dry moat surrounding
the massive walls of the old city, and galloped
along the Lunetta to the sound of a military
band. We looked for pursuit, but in vain.
There was no trace of that terrible woman.
The road was clear behind us, save for the

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slow pleasure vehicles moving toward the
music stand. She had gone to the branch
cable office. She would be delayed by the
Spanish clerks, for it would take a miracle to
make a Spaniard do anything in a hurry.
There was still a chance for me. I might
beat her yet. The manager at the main office
was an Englishman, and could be stirred to
swift action. If I reached the end of the
cable a moment before her despatch was tele-
graphed in from the branch office, God would
have given her into my hands. I had a fresh
horse. The air seemed to grow more pleasant
as we whirled along the edge of the sparkling
water. My driver kept looking backward,
and believing that the race was over, allowed
the horse to settle down into a gentle trot,
while he lit a cigarette. But I would take
no chances. I remembered the startled eyes
and glowing face in the censor's office. My
rival was not a woman to give up a fight.

" Gallop ! " I cried. " Use your whip as if
your life depended on it."

The stinging lash went singing through the
air and the horse went forward at full speed.

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" Faster ! Faster ! "

Back through the Calle Reale we went,
lurching and rattling, with a train of barking
dogs racing in our dust ; back past the hospi-
tals, saloons, shops, barracks, and white villas,
making the highway hideous with our onrush.
The soldiers and the shopkeepers cheered me
as I went by, and General Lawton flung my
hat at the carriage in a burst of enthusiasm.
Everybody understood that it was a race for
the cable, and everybody thought I had won.
But I knew better. I trembled as I thought
of that frail figure flying in the opposite
direction to the branch office, the determined
face, the quick wit, and man-compelling tongue.
On, on, on, past schools and monasteries, past
the army gospel tent, over the road on which
the Spanish troops fled before the American
vanguard, past houses riddled with shells
from Dewey's guns, past wonderful trees that
shed fragrance at night and are scentless in
the daytime, with dogs in front, dogs on each
side, and dogs behind, snapping and snarling
and tumbling over each other. The sweet
faint odor of the green ylang-ylang flower

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

was in every nostril. The tropic sun was
reflected in every window. A cool breeze
fanned my face. The road was clear.

When we reached the little wooden cable
office, whose walls were scarred by many a bul-
let, I burst into the manager's office and laid
my despatch before him.

" I want to hold the wire."

" It will cost money to make sure of it," said
the manager.

Glancing around the office I saw that every
telegraph instrument was idle. Not a sound
disturbed the silence. My rival's despatch had
not yet begun to arrive on the city wire. At
that moment the instrument through which her
message must come began to click loudly. The
manager ran to the key and listened. It did
not need that rough chuckle to tell me that my
enemy had filed her despatch. The manager
turned to me with a curious smile.

" You want your message to go first ? "

" Of course — it must go first. I am first on
the ground."

"Yes," he said, "you are first by nearly a
minute. Will you send it at the press rate, the

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

commercial rate, or the urgent rate ? The com-
mercial rate is three times greater than the
press rate, and the urgent rate is nine times
more than the press rate."

" Send the first page at the urgent rate," and
I groaned when I figured out the cost.

The city wire was silent. An operator sat
down and made ready to take my rival's mes-
sage. Another operator began to cable my
first page to Hong Kong. I watched the city
wire. The manager watched me. It was a des-
perate game. The little woman at the other
end of that wire represented one of the richest
and most prodigal newspapers in New York.
Its proprietor prided himself on his supremacy
in war news. He would not forgive a corre-
spondent who was beaten. My enemy was a
woman. What would she do ? Would she file
her whole despatch at the urgent rate ? She
had the professional reputation of her sick hus-
band to guard. Her newspaper could afford to
use the urgent rate. But did she have the nerve ?

My first page was finished. The cable
operator asked for instructions, and the mana-
ger faced me.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

" Press or urgent ? "

The city wire clicked sharply, and the
operator began to write out my rival's despatch.
There was no time to lose. An urgent despatch
Would take precedence over all but government
messages. It was a plunge in the dark, yet I
had to take it, for in another moment the com-
peting despatch would be on the cable, if it was
marked " urgent," and I would be helpless to
recover the wire.

" Urgent," I said. " I must win."

Then I sat down and tried to count the ex-
pense of sending the proclamation to New
York. The woman was mastered at last. She
might send an urgent despatch right on the
heels of my message, but the money would be
wasted. Official matters would crowd in be-
tween the two despatches at Hong Kong, Singa-
pore, Calcutta, Bombay, Aden, Port Said,
Gibraltar, and all along the route to America,
widening the distance between my message and
hers. Her words would reach New York a
day after mine and, for newspaper purposes,
a day is as good as a century. The fight was
won.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

In a few minutes we heard a light step and
my rival entered. Her face was colorless and
drawn. She looked imploringly at the mana-
ger. The burly Englishman smiled at us.

" I can't tell secrets," he said. " Some one
has been beaten, but you'll never get a hint out
of me."

She smiled and shook hands with me.

" I suppose you have been cabling a few
words," she said, with an innocent face.

" Oh, just a little message to let them know
I'm alive."

" I sent a word or two myself."

We looked into each other's eyes and under-
stood.

" That message of yours will cost just seven
thousand six hundred and two dollars and forty-
two cents in silver," whispered the manager in
my ear as I left the office.

It was my first race with a woman. Heaven
save me from another !

356

CHAPTER XVIII

In the Black Republic

IT is many years since I first breathed the
enchanted air of journalism, and in that
time the wayward fortunes of my profes-
sion have led me among many peoples. I have
heard the Aladdins of America and Europe
cry, " New lamps for old ! " and I have heard
the Aladdins of Asia answer, " Old lamps for
new ! " I have wandered on the frontier where
civilization and barbarism meet, seeing good and
bad in both. But I have looked upon no
stranger country than Hayti, the black island
republic, where gold-laced militarism, French
fashions and Christianity are hopelessly tangled
with African serpent worship and savage tribal
traditions.

I was sent to the negro republic by a great
American newspaper, whose proprietor believed
that the Haytians must some day become a part
of the United States ; and I bore a message to

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President Hyppolite — one of those curious com-
munications which New York journalism occa-
sionally addresses to small nations when news is
scarce ; for the modern editor is seldom con-
tented unless he feels that he is making history
as well as writing it.

There was something romantic and mysteri-
ous in a mission to a people whose great grand-
fathers were naked savages in the African forests.
A curious place to send a city-bred American
newspaper man to ; yet a realm full of food for
the student of man. I had seen the red savage
of Dakota in a silk hat, but I was presently to see
the African savage wearing a general's uniform
and a sword, and speaking French.

A hundred years ago the negroes of Hayti
who had been carried in chains from Africa to
take the place of the gentle native Indians,
worked to death by the Christian discoverers of
America, astonished the world by setting up
an independent government of their own.

The influence of the French Revolution spread
itself to the remotest parts of the French do-
minions. Under the leadership of Toussaint
1'Ouverture, a black of unmixed blood, the people

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of Hayti drove the troops of Napoleon, of
Spain, and of England out of the island. An
army of slaves, commanded by a slave, success-
fully defied the conqueror of Europe. Their
soil was the richest known in any part of the
world. French energy and administrative
genius had developed the country until its
products were carried to all the great ports
of Europe, and its treasury was overflowing.
Splendid palaces were to be found in the cities.
There was not a more prosperous place on the
map. But the cruelties of France drove the
slaves into rebellion, and when Toussaint, after
freeing his country, had been lured away and
starved to death in a dungeon by Napoleon, his
successor, Dessalines, soon after had himself
crowned as Emperor of Hayti. When he died
the republic was founded, but the first president,
Christope, proclaimed himself a king. So ex-
traordinary was the enterprise of this savage
monarch, that he was able to build a beautiful
palace and a fortress with walls eighty feet high
on a mountain peak five thousand feet above
the sea — a feat that amazes engineers who have
seen the ruins. After the death of the king,

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the republic was reestablished and maintained
until Soulouque, an ignorant negro soldier, was
chosen as president. He, too, became an em-
peror, paying ten thousand dollars for a jewelled
crown and a hundred and fifty thousand dollars
for the rest of the royal regalia. When he
finally fled from the island in 1859, the republic
was again restored, and it has been the Haytian
form of government ever since.

The history of the black republic is a tale of
conspiracy, war, treachery, massacre, cannibal-
ism, and corruption without a parallel among the
nations. And yet it was of the founder of this
nation that Wendell Phillips said : -

" I would call him Napoleon, but Napoleon
made his way to empire over broken oaths and
through a sea of blood. This man never broke
his word. I would call him Cromwell, but
Cromwell was only a soldier, and the state he
founded went down with him into his grave. I
would call him Washington, but the great Vir-
ginian held slaves. This man risked his empire
rather than permit the slave trade in the
humblest village of his dominions. Fifty years
hence, when Truth gets a hearing, the Muse

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of History will put Phocion for the Greek, and
Brutus for Rome, Hampden for England, Fay-
ette for France ; choose Washington as the bright,
consummate flower of our earlier civilization,
and John Brown the ripe fruit of our noonday ;
then, dipping her pen in the sunlight, will write
in the clear blue, above them all, the name of
the soldier, the statesman, the martyr, Toussaint
1'Ouverture."

But I had not been in Hayti forty-eight hours
before I learned that the national hero was not
Toussaint, of whom the Marquis d'Hermonas
wrote, "He was the purest soul that God ever
put into a body," but Dessalines, the pitiless
emperor who ordered his soldiers to kill practi-
cally the whole white population of the island.

Rome had reared her altars in the island, and
the state religion was Christianity; but the
voodoo priesthood, skilled in mysterious vegeta-
ble poisons, and burning with the serpent-super-
stitions of the African wilds, was a power among
the people. The Christian knight may lay his
sword upon the tomb of Christ and pray for
victory, but he knows that the warrior of Islam
has laid his cimeter upon the grave of Moham-

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

med in appeal. So the solemn ritual of the
Christian church in Hayti is answered by the
ghastly rites of voodooism. The same people
attend both houses of worship, finding nothing
incongruous in this contrast of heaven and hell.
It was New Year's Eve, and the streets of
Port-au-Prince, the Haytian capital, echoed the
dull throbbing of drums beaten in the voodoo
ceremonies. Sounds of barbaric revelry came
from every direction. The wild orgies of the
serpent worshippers were in full swing. Mount-
ing a native pony, so thin that he could scarcely
bear my weight, I rode about with a guide
through the filthy streets of the city. It was a
night of beauty, but the white moonlight that
descended from the lovely tropic sky made the
rows of huts and slattern houses look even more
hideous than they were in the day. At almost
every corner we were challenged by a barefooted
negro sentry, for Port-au-Prince was under siege
law. Around the palace of the president — a
modern plaster building — was a cordon of
sentries, all barefooted, and many of them
swinging in hammocks while on duty. The
city swarmed with soldiers and with officers

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

covered with gold lace. Several times that
night we saw officers in resplendent uniforms,
but without shoes. The monotonous rub-a-dub
of the voodoo drums, the ululations of the
mystic singing, the incessant fanfare of military
bugles, and the lazy droning of the sentries in all
the streets added to the weird suggestiveness of
the sullen black faces that stared at us wherever
we turned. We were in the midst of negro
civilization, in the capital of a nation governed
by black men for a century without the inter-
ference of the white race, — and we were
within sight of Cuba. The sentries gave me my
first glimpse of the Haytian character.

" Who goes there ? " (in French).

" Foreigner ! " answered my companion.

"White man, give me ten cents."

" Go to blazes ! "

" White man, give me a cigar."

11 Go to blazes ! "

" Bon ! "

It happened that way again and again,
always in the same words and always with the
same result. Sometimes the sentries were
asleep in their hammocks, and, awakened by

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

noise of our ponies' hoofs, did not even take
the trouble to raise their heads when chal-
lenging us.

On the outskirts of the city we entered a
cabin and watched a black voodoo priest with
a red handkerchief tied about his head, draw-
ing cabalistic signs around a rusty sword stuck
in the ground, while seven or eight half naked
negresses abandoned themselves to an un-
speakably obscene dance before an altar-like
box which contained the live serpent-god.
Twenty or thirty negro men, some of them
fashionably dressed, and some of them ragged
peasants, stood about the room drinking rum.
A wizened old man sat on the ground thump-
ing a sheepskin drawn over the end of a hol-
low log, and giving voice to a wild rhythmic
caterwauling, which was answered from time
to time by a passionate chorus from the
singers. It was the voodoo dance of the Afri-
can tribes — the prelude to human sacrifice
and cannibalism, although the influence of
Western civilization in Hayti had substituted
the blood of goats and fowl for the blood of
innocent children — "the goat without horns."

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ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

As I looked away from the dusky dancers
twisting and swaying before the altar of the
mystic serpent, I was astonished to see on a
shelf on the opposite wall colored pictures of
Christ and the Virgin, with lighted candles
twinkling in front of them. Presently the
voodoo priest trimmed the lights, and bowing
low before the picture of the Virgin, drank a
glass of white rum, and resumed his incanta-
tions at the voodoo shrine. Gradually the
men began to dance before the negresses, the
crowd grew drunker, and the scene became
so foul that we withdrew. As we left, all lights
were extinguished but the candles that shone
upon the mild face of the Saviour. For hours
we went from hut to hut, witnessing the rites
of Central Africa in the capital of a nation
whose state religion is Christian.

In one hut I talked with a Haytian colonel
in full uniform. As I turned to leave, the
colonel touched me on the shoulder.

" Give me ten cents," he said.

"Give it to him," said my guide; "he is
drunk, and white men are not safe here."

Several days afterward I saw the colonel

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

on duty at a president's palace, the haughtiest
figure of them all.

The next day President Hyppolite reviewed
his troops on the parade-ground before the
palace. He sat on a black horse in the shade
of a tree, and he was a fine figure, with his
gold-embroidered blue coat, immense epau-
lettes, cocked hat, buff breeches, and riding
boots. Blue spectacles shaded his eyes. A
large silver decoration glittered on his breast.
On either side of the president were grouped
his principal generals, heavy-faced negroes,
covered with gold braid, and wearing enor-
mous swords. The crowd looked with hushed
awe upon the military leaders. Caesar and
his legionaries were not more impressive to the
multitudes of Rome. Even when the bare-
footed soldiers, who were compelled for that
day to wear shoes, removed them and marched
past the president, carrying their footgear
in their hands, no one smiled. But a white
man could not look at the gorgeous generals
without an effort to control the muscles of his
face. Sometimes it seemed as though there
were as many officers as privates in the pro-

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cession. Sir Spencer St. John, the former
British minister to Hayti, has seriously re-
corded the fact that out of a Haytian military
force of sixteen thousand there were fifteen
hundred generals of division.

After a night in the house of an American
friend — with tiny lizards crawling on the walls
of my bedroom as thick as flies, and a deadly
centipede discovered under my pillow — I went
to see President Hyppolite.

The head of the black republic received me
in a large room furnished in the gaudiest colors,
the only striking note being the white anti-
macassars on the chairs and sofas. He was a
strongly built man with intensely black skin, and
his splendidly rounded head was covered with
wool of startling whiteness. His eyes were
hidden by iron-framed blue goggles. The big
flat nose, the long upper lip, the square jaws,
the jutting chin, even, flat teeth, and full fore-
head, indicated the will power that had carried
a revolutionary chief into the president's chair.
Hyppolite wore a general's uniform, and in spite
of the terrible heat, it was buttoned to the chin.
His hands were long, sinewy, and gorilla-like.

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The expression of his countenance was that of
goodness and nobility.

The black president seemed to be unable to
smile. Humor was wasted upon him. The
negroes of Hayti are a sullen people. A man
accustomed to the lovable laughter of negroes
in the United States — men whose ancestors
came from the same tribes that peopled Hayti —
is always surprised by the smileless, saturnine
aspect of the Haytian face.

It was an interesting thing for an American
citizen to study the foremost man in a nation of
negroes, a man born in a republic whose funda-
mental idea is hostility to white men.

Hyppolite listened to the plan for a more exclu-
sively American policy in Hayti. His eyes were
concealed behind the little blue panes, but he
opened and shut his terrible hands impatiently.

" We are content to be as we are," he said in
the local French patois. " We have learned to
look with suspicion upon all schemes for our
island coming from white men. We know that
they would overrun us if we gave them the
opportunity. What has your nation done for
our race ? "

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ON THE CREDIT HIGHWAY

" It has poured out blood and money, and laid
waste whole states in order to make the black
man the equal of the white man," I answered.

"Has it?" growled the president. " It has
cheated the negro with promises that are never
kept, and with laws that are never enforced.
The blacks of the United States are kept in a
state of inferiority from which they can never
rise. You cannot name one negro governor of
a state, although there are several American
states in which the whites are outnumbered by
the blacks. The people of Hayti won their
independence from their white masters by the
sword, and they will keep it by the sword. The
United States tried to get us to give them the
Mole St. Nicholas for a coaling station ; but we
are not fools. No white nation seeks a foothold
in this island except as a basis for conquest."

" That is a remarkable statement," I said,
"when you recall the fact that, but for the
warning given by Mr. Monroe, a President of
the United States, to the Holy Alliance, Hayti
would have been reconquered by France."

" Ah yes ! the Monroe Doctrine ! always the
Monroe Doctrine ! " cried Hyppolite. " But the

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ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

history of the world shows that no race can
develop unless it develops itself; no race can
be free unless the means of freedom are in its
own hands; and no white people can look at a
rich country inhabited by negroes without desir-
ing to secure it for themselves. We are free,
and we intend to remain free. You see a negro
holding the highest office in the nation. Would
that be possible if the United States or any
other white government had control ? No. Each
race must live apart to be free. When the
races mix, one race or the other must fall into
a condition of inferiority."

" And the negroes of Africa ? " I interrupted.
" Will they, too, be able to maintain governments
of their own ? "

" Probably not. They are unarmed, and sur-
rounded by powerful white nations. But that
is a question for the future. The example of
Hayti may yet play a part in the destiny of
Africa."

Not being initiated into the shrewd mys-
teries of New York journalism, the president
could not understand why an American news-
paper should meddle with the governmental

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

affairs of the little republic. Nor did I seek
to enlighten him concerning the advantages
which a sharp turn of adventurous enterprise
may bring to the press in my sensation-loving
country.

That week we had a thrilling experience in
Port-au-Prince. An American citizen had been
arrested for smuggling six cotton shirts into
the island. His accuser was an aide-de-camp
to the president. In spite of treaty stipula-
tions, the prisoner was kept in jail without
having a hearing in court. The American
minister had gone to the United States for a
rest, and the Haytian government laughed at
the repeated protests of the American consul-
general. The absent minister was brought to
Port-au-Prince on board of the gunboat A tlanta.
He hurried to the palace and demanded the
instant release of the imprisoned American
and the payment of twenty thousand dollars
— a thousand dollars for each day of wrongful
detention. Hyppolite listened to the minister,
and scornfully bowed him out of the room.
Then he sent for the admiral of the Haytian
navy, who reported that, of his two ships,

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one could not move because the engines were
broken, and the other had no guns in place.
The president consulted his ministers, who ad-
vised him to resist. Presently the whole city
knew that the republic had been threatened
by the United States. The Haytians regarded
the matter as a fine joke. It was worth a
trip to the tropics to see the jaunty airs of
the negro generals, and to hear the terrific
rolling of drums in front of the palace.

The American minister consulted the captain
of the Atlanta, and both sent cabled messages
to Washington recommending a "demonstra-
tion in force."

" What will you do if our gunboat bombards
your capital?" I said to one of the black
generals.

" Kill every white man in Port-au-Prince,"
he said with an amiable grin.

" But that will not save your city from de-
struction."

The general pushed his cocked hat on the
back of his woolly head and spat on the ground
vigorously. I could hear his teeth click.

"Two British warships once threatened to

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bombard the city of Les Cayes," he said, " and
do you know what reply the brave Haytians
made ? "

" No."

"They said to the British, 'Tell us which
end of the city you will begin to burn, and we
will commence to burn the other end/ That
was a good answer, wasn't it ? "

It is impossible to convey an idea of the
leering vanity and insolence in that savage face.
The eyes rolled sidewise, the lids drooped cun-
ningly, the nostrils expanded, and the thick
underlip was thrust out.

" Tell that story to the captain of your gun-
boat," he said. " Tell him I told you — I, I, I "
— and he slapped his breast valiantly.

" Suppose you come to the ship with me and
tell him yourself," I suggested.

" It would be contrary to the etiquette of
our army," he said. "A Haytian soldier is
not allowed to boast."

While the captain of the Atlanta waited for
orders to train his guns on Port-au-Prince and
bring the black republic to terms, he found it
impossible to learn the size or condition of the

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

guns in the three harbor forts which com-
manded his vessel. In order not to unneces-
sarily arouse the passions of the population, the
captain decided not to send any of his men
on shore, and requested me to find out what I
could about the armament of the forts.

It was a serious task, for a white man dis-
covered in the act of gathering information
for a hostile warship would have his throat
cut without ceremony. I went to a drinking
house just outside of the wall of the cemetery
and found a Haytian colonel with whom I had
become acquainted.

"You have come just in time to see a man
die," he said, as I sat down at the table beside
him. " He cut a man's throat, and will be
shot. The army does that work in Hayti."

A great multitude gathered, men, women,
and children, of every shade of black, shout-
ing, singing, drinking, and dancing. It was a
festival. Not a note of pity, not a sign of
reverence. The bright handkerchiefs worn by
the women lent an air of carnival gayety to
the picture. Children were carried in their
mothers' arms to see the brave sight.

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

Then came a shining stream of bayonets,
and sixteen hundred black soldiers were
drawn up in a line facing the cemetery wall,
with a dazzling group of mounted officers at
the centre. The prisoner, a fine-looking, well-
dressed negro, was led out in front of the
soldiers by a white cord fastened to his right
wrist, a black priest with a crucifix walking
by his side.

The military commandant of Port-au-Prince,
plumed and covered with gold lace, galloped
out to the prisoner, unrolled the death war-
rant, struck a theatrical attitude and, with
one hand outstretched, read the sentence. A
firing squad of six soldiers advanced to within
fifteen feet of the victim.

" Isn't it fine ! " said the colonel, rapturously,
as we watched the scene.

A bottle of rum and a glass were handed
to the prisoner. He filled the glass and
drank it off at a gulp. Then he received a
cigar and a match. He scratched the match
on his trousers, lit the cigar in a lazy, swag-
gering way, and puffed at it with the easy
carelessness of a mere spectator. It was an

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old custom, for the Haytians enjoy the sight
of courage in the presence of death.

On all sides rose sounds of festivity. The
crowd swayed joyously in the bright sunlight.
And out there on the dull red earth the con-
demned man stood beside his open grave,
calming smoking his cigar, with the stolid
soul of old Africa in his face.

The squad fired. Not a shot hit the prisoner.
The soldiers reloaded their rifles and fired
again. His arm was broken, but he stood
still. Another volley and he fell, yet he
moved. A soldier advanced, and putting the
muzzle of his rifle to the prostrate body,
ended the agony. Then the crowd shrieked and
danced, and was suddenly silent and sullen.

How was I to get a look at the interior of
the forts? It was plain that the colonel
would not help me if he suspected my pur-
pose. There was not a man in the place who
would not have cheerfully killed me, had I
given a hint of my mission.1

"You have plenty of soldiers for a small
nation," I remarked, as the troops surged past
the house.

3/6

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

The colonel showed the whites of his eyes,
and twisted his mouth into the semblance of
a smile.

"The great Napoleon made that same
remark," he said.

"It's a pity you have no good guns in your
harbor forts."

" Wha-a-at ? "

"It seems so strange that a great military
nation like Hayti" — I kept my face straight
— "should be defenceless against a sea
attack."

" Have you seen the guns in our forts ? "
The colonel showed his sharp white teeth.

"No; but I'll bet fifty francs that there is
not a good modern rifle in place."

" I accept the bet," roared the colonel.

"How will we decide it?"

" I will show you the guns."

"When?"

" Now."

It was necessary to show some reluctance.

"I'm afraid you are too sharp for me, col-
onel. Let us wait until to-morrow."

" No, no," shouted the excited officer, jump-

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ON THE GREAT HIGH W 'AY

ing to his feet, "you must go now. I
don't intend to let you escape from the
wager."

And so I was taken into all the forts, and
was permitted to examine all the guns and
ammunition. Within half an hour I had made
my report to the captain of the Atlanta, and
that night he trained his guns on the one
effective fort in Port-au-Prince.

But hardly were the preparations for a
bombardment complete when a message from
Washington instructed the commander of the
gunboat to refrain from any hostile demonstra-
tion, and the negro generals got drunk for
joy. The United States had been challenged
to war and had not dared to face the nation
that vanquished Napoleon.

In the generous excitement of that great
moment, the American minister was privately
informed that the Haytian government would
gladly pay the twenty thousand dollars de-
manded by the United States, on condition
that the Minister of Foreign Affairs was to
be allowed to quietly retain six thousand dol-
lars for himself — the American minister to

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ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

make his own arrangements for a share of the
booty. The offer was declined.

Island of fairy loveliness ! Palm-crested, ever-
green mountains ! Dreamy valleys, sparkling
with sweet waters ! Soil of eternal youth and
riches! The palaces and plantations of the
French have vanished. The knightly spirit of
Toussaint 1'Ouverture is dead. The stateliness
of the old days has given place to a monstrous
caricature of civilization. A stupid and merci-
less military despotism arrays its blood-stained
body in the fair garment of republicanism.
The most corrupt and debased government
known to man flourishes in the one spot
where nature seems to link heaven and earth
together.

Who that has seen Hayti and the United
States, shall say that the negro is dragged
downward by association with his white brother?
The black men of Hayti have lived for a hun-
dred years, without outside hindrance, on a soil
of surprising wealth, in a climate married to
their temperament, shielded from invasion by
the greatest power of the American continent,
and possessed of all the knowledge that history

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ON THE CREDIT HIGHWAY

can teach a free people. Yet they are slowly
returning to the darkness and misery of pri-
mordial Africa. The black men of the United
States, torn from their native soil by slave-
dealers, and set in the midst of white men,
have profited by every advance the republic
has made, and, led by lofty-minded negroes like
Booker T. Washington, are gradually emerg-
ing into the light of that serene civilization in
which alone can true liberty endure.

I sharpened the pencil which jotted down
these lines with a knife from the table of the
negro emperor Soulouque. It has a cheap
iron blade and a solid gold handle, on which
is engraved an imperial crown and Soulouque's
monogram. It was this sable monarch who
created four negro princes and fifty-nine negro
dukes, yet he ended his murderous reign by
flying from his enraged subjects under the
protection of the white crew of a British
gunboat.

" Create nobles ? " cried Dessalines, when he
ascended the throne. "Never! I am the
only noble in Hayti."

380

CHAPTER XIX

Newsgathering in the Clouds

LOOKING through the pages of the
note-books that carry the story of my
boyish days in journalism, I find a
few rough scrawlings that bring to mind a
bright Canadian sky, the green slopes of
Mount Royal, a chattering crowd spread out
on one of the lacrosse fields of Montreal, and
a great, glistening, yellow gas bag wobbling
in circles above an iron cage, with huge fan
wheels, in which I was to make a journey
through the air for the edification of the in-
satiate American newspaper public.

It was midsummer; news was scarce, and
New York had to be amused. There was
something occult in aerial navigation that ap-
pealed to the imagination, and, like a bull-
fight, a balloon trip held the delightfully excit-
ing possibilities of human sacrifice. Besides,
there was always a chance that the latest

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

airship might solve the great problem and
give man dominion of the air. I was a youth
then and the prospect of rough adventure
thrilled me.

" The confounded old airship may not be
worth a continental," said my chief, before I
left New York, " but the voyage will make a
good story. Be careful of yourself. If you
break your neck, remember, you can't write
your despatch." With this sympathetic advice
in my ears, I went to Montreal.

The multitude that gathered in the lacrosse
ground to see the new airship ascend was
typical of Canada — boisterous, fresh-faced, and
full of the love of open-air sports — with here
and there a bearded habiton, a jaunty volun-
teer in uniform, or an Indian pedler. It was
the same sort of crowd that in winter flings
itself into the hearty excitements of skating,
snowshoeing, and tobogganing.

A thousand fingers poked the varnished
sides of the big gas bag, picked at the net
that held it in captivity, or watched the painted
canvas pipe that undulated and pulsed, like a
monstrous brown serpent, as the gas streamed

382

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

through it into the balloon. A few examined
the odd-looking steering wheels, whose great
blades, turned by an iron crank, were made
to feather like oars at any point, a simple
mechanical device. Strong guy-ropes pre-
vented the tossing yellow monster from tear-
ing itself away in the rising wind. A group
of sturdy workmen held on to the car, a
primitive square structure made of light iron
tubes.

It was time to start. Grimley, the aero-
naut, a shrewd little Yorkshireman, nimble of
hand and foot, stepped into the car, and a
babble of voices arose. The multitude pressed
close and stared at the sky-sailor. He was a
singular figure and carried with him a strange
sense of mystery. When he was not a bal-
loonist he was a tailor, dancing master, or
teacher of mesmerism. His muscular, grace-
ful little body weighed only a hundred and
ten pounds, but what he lacked in inches and
girth he made up in his commanding face.
He had the brow of a poet — broad, white,
veined with blue — and his military mus-
taches turned up sharply from a full-lipped,

383

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

determined mouth. The extraordinary fea-
tures of the countenance were the eyes, large,
intensely black, and bold as a lion's. I had
seen him hypnotize a man once, and knew
the power of that glance.

As I pushed my way through the swaying,
excited crowd, and reached the side of the car,
I was confronted by another correspondent, who
insisted upon his right to make the trip.

"The car will only hold two," said Grimley;
" one of you must stay on the earth."

The crowd saw the situation, wagged its head,
and roared like a storm at sea.

" Let them toss a penny ! " shouted a gray-
haired man who clung to a guy-rope.

"Yes! yes! toss! toss!" shrieked the
crowd.

A gust of wind struck the balloon and swung
it around in mighty circles. Grimley climbed
like a cat into the iron concentrating ring, where
the ropes connecting the car and the giant gas
bag met.

"You must decide between you which shall
go and which shall stay," he said. "There's
no time to lose ; a breeze is springing up."

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

"Toss a penny! toss! toss!" screamed the
heaving sea of faces.

"It may be a toss for life," said the little
aeronaut, fixing his great dark eyes on us ; " but
whatever it is, you must hurry. We're going to
have a storm, and must leave the earth at
once."

I drew a Canadian penny from my pocket
and flipped it in the air.

" Heads ! " cried my antagonist.

The crowd was suddenly silent, and parted
to let the whirling coin fall on the ground.

It was tails. In a moment I was in the car,
and the door was shut with a clang. Grimley
fastened the end of the 'throttle-valve rope in
the concentrating ring, dropped into the car,
seized the handle of the steering crank, and
shouted to his assistants to release the guy-
ropes. In a moment the balloon was free, and
leaped about wildly in the wind, held down only
by the car.

"Let go!"

The men who had been desperately hang-
ing on to the car leaped back. The crowd
uttered a sound that might have come from the

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

throat of a whirlwind, and surged backward and
forward. It was the supreme moment.

But the balloon remained fast. The car was
as immovable as Gibraltar. Something was
wrong. The tragic thrill went out of the air.
The heartless crowd laughed, and the romance
and dash of the thing disappeared. It was one
thing to summon up the soul for a wild sweep
into the boundless air, and another thing to
stand helplessly in the midst of that guffawing
Canadian mob. It was the laughter of Niagara.

" She won't lift the flying machinery," said
Grimley, with an oath. " Strip the wheels off !
Lift the gearing out ! "

" But my experiment ! " pleaded the inventor
of the airship, at the aeronaut's elbow. " You
can steer where you will when you get up —
right, left, up, down."

" Strip her, quick ! " commanded Grimley.

In a few minutes the wheels and their fittings
were torn out of the car, and a great sigh went
up from the spectators as we shot swiftly away
from the ground, the long drag-rope trailing
down below us. The shouting became faint,
and the upturned faces dim. Mount Royal

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OAT THE GREAT HIGHWAY

seemed to grow flat. Masses of purple clouds
were piled up on the northern horizon, sun-
tipped and beautiful. We were drifting across
Montreal, and could see the old Cathedral of
Notre Dame, the Champ de Mars, Jacques
C artier Square, the Bon-Secour Market, with
its throngs ; the acres of bright tin roofs glitter-
ing in the slanting sunlight, and beyond the
crooked streets and confused noises of the Cana-
dian metropolis, the St. Lawrence River, broad,
blue, majestic, its splendid wharves crowded
with shipping, and a procession of barges and
timber rafts floating downward from the Great
Lakes. The wind took us rapidly across the
river, but the cold air over the water caused the
gas in the balloon to contract, and Grimley had
to pour sand out of one of the ballast sacks to
check our downward movement.

It was a scene of great beauty. The de-
scending sun struck a million sparkles in the
clear flood beneath us, and the steamboats left
feathery white trails behind them. The won-
derful Victoria Bridge and its stone piers
looked like a three-mile caterpillar stretched
from shore to shore. Beyond were the swish-

387

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

ing Lachine Rapids, and to the left the settle-
ment of the Cauganawauga Indians, guilty of
nothing worse than birch-bark toys, deerskin
moccasins, and maple sugar. The mighty
landscape was filled with color. Towns, vil-
lages, woods, farms, streams, were spread out
before the eye as far as the rim of the earth
— the country of the hardiest and simplest
race in the Western hemisphere, peaceful, con-
tented neighbors of the great republic.

The wind was rising and driving clouds
across the sky. We could see the trees on
St. Helen's Island bending in the breeze;
but there was no sense of motion in the little
iron car. We were going with the air and
were untroubled. Grimley swung himself into
the concentrating ring and crossed his legs
under him, tailor fashion. There was some-
thing uncanny in the elfin figure, white face,
bristling mustache, and bottomless black eyes,
with the vast yellow sphere floating above him,
and its great neck breathing forth evil-smelling
vapor. The stillness of the place was almost
unbearable.

" It's funny how people rush to see a balloon

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

ascension," he said. " It isn't the love of sci-
ence that stirs them up, for any man that
isn't a blithering idiot knows that you can't
steer a balloon in a strong wind any more than
you can force a full-rigged ship, with all her
sails set, against a hurricane. If you could
get a motor powerful enough to do it, the
envelope of the balloon would collapse. No;
men and women are still savage enough to
enjoy the sight of human beings going to
their death. It's the mystery of the thing
that catches them. But it isn't only aeronauts
and mesmerists who profit by the mystery in
their business — doctors, preachers, poets, and
all that tribe which lives on the borders of
the unknown, live on mystery. There are
thousands of fools looking up at us from the
earth, and shuddering at terrors of their own
imagination, while we sit here as safe and quiet
as you please, and laugh at them. That's the
way of the world. By the way " — looking at
the barometer — " you'd better let out some
ballast. We're falling." I poured out some
sand from a sack. "That'll do. We have
less than two hundred pounds of ballast, and

389

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

we must use it sparingly, for the sun is setting,
and it's hard to keep a balloon floating in the
cold night air."

Grimley took an apple from his pocket and
munched it slowly as he leaned back against
the netting, with one hand thrown behind his
head for greater comfort. The red glare of
the sunset shone on the glistering curves of
the balloon.

"You lead a strange life, Grimley."

The little captain of the air nodded his
head, and a twinkle came into his eyes as he
tossed the core of the apple away.

" In a way, yes ; but, when you come to
think of it, no stranger than the lives of many
men who seem commonplace. There are thou-
sands who keep themselves high in the world
by feeding out money as ballast, just as I feed
out sand. So long as they keep their breath
to themselves, so long as they refrain from
talking, they float. But the moment they open
their mouths and let the emptiness out, down
they come, just as a pull on that rope will re-
lease the gas through the throttle-valve and
make us sink back again to the earth. Mys-

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

tery's the cloak that shelters most of the hum-
bug in the world. When I was a tailor nobody
cared a tinker's damn for me ; but when I be-
came a mesmerist and a balloonist I was a per-
son of consequence, although my life was not
a tenth part as useful as when I worked at
my trade. I've had an offer to lecture in the
small towns on an electric belt that cures all
sorts of diseases. There's mystery and money
in the business, and I'm going to accept. The
world likes to be tricked if it can be tickled
at the same time. I'll call myself Professor
Something-or-other — you must keep a straight
face when you bamboozle them ; you'll find
that out in time."

Hours passed. The glow faded out of the sky,
and the wind increased. Our sand ballast was
going fast. The landscape darkened. We passed
over a thin cloud. A gentle rumble of thunder
came from the gathering clouds in the north.
There was a glimmering play of lightning, and
the drifting vapors gleamed for a moment in pure
white tones. We could hear the storm in the
trees below us.

Grimley made the anchor-rope ready, and

OAT THE GREAT HIGH WAT

hung the five-pronged anchor on the railing of
the car. His rapid movements and half -sup-
pressed mutterings convinced me that he was
alarmed. He peered anxiously at the earth.
Nothing could be seen but miles of trees thrash-
ing in the gale.

" Our ballast is exhausted," I said, as I threw
the empty sack over.

" Cut the drag-rope to pieces and use it for
ballast," said the aeronaut. " We can't land in
trees. We'll be torn to pieces."

Foot by foot the drag-rope was severed and
dropped over the railing. When it was all
gone the balloon slowly sank again, and we
could hear the rushing roar of the tempest in
the murky woods. As we neared the wild tree-
tops, the terrific speed at which we were going
through the air became apparent. A thousand
fierce voices seemed to call to us out of the
agonized forest. And while we watched the
furious storm sweeping over the land, there
was not a breath of air stirring in the car, for
we were travelling as fast as the gale.

" Unless we strike a clearing soon, we're lost,"
said Grimley, quietly, as he stooped and began

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

to tear up the wooden flooring of the car.
" We must lighten her even if we have to throw
our clothes away. Everything must go over-
board but the anchor-rope; that's our only
salvation. My God ! what a night ! "

Soon we had cleared the car of every mova-
ble thing, and Grimley climbed into the con-
centrating ring to free the end of the rope
that worked the throttle-valve in the top of the
balloon. We had risen a little, but the howling
of the storm in the timber still sounded fearfully
through the darkness. Grimley threw his jacket
and shoes away.

" So long as we go with the wind, we're
safe," said the little philosopher, with a mirth-
less laugh. " We're like a Wall Street plunger
— if he goes on, he's ruined, if he stops, he's
smashed up."

I was leaning against the side of the car and
gazing down at the dark tumult, wondering
vaguely why I had trusted my life to the
strength of an envelope filled with gas, when,
without warning, the fastening of the car door
yielded to my weight, and I lurched out into
the darkness. With a cry of despair I caught

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ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

at the swinging door and hung trembling be-
tween heaven and earth.

Looking up I saw Grimley staring at me
from his perch. His strange black eyes seemed
to draw me toward him. His nostrils were
spread, and his face was deathly white. The
whole power of the man was in the intense look
he bent upon me. He beckoned gently with
one hand.

" Come ! come ! come ! " he commanded in a
low voice. " Come ! come ! "

He looked like a great tomcat crouching in
the rigging. The eyes glowed and flashed. I
felt a sudden sense of strength, and began
to pull myself upward, but the oscillation
of the door made me weak again. The roar-
ing of the tempest in the woods grew louder.
A flash of lightning whitened the confused
sky.

" Come ! come ! " urged the steady voice.
" It's easy. There ! there ! Come ! "

With a tremendous effort I managed to reach
the solid rail of the car, and in another moment
I was safe inside of it, but I shook from head to
foot and cold drops of sweat stood on my fore-

394

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

head. Grimley dropped into the car and shut
the door.

" I tried to mesmerize you," he remarked.
" Newspaper men are such sceptics that they're
hard subjects, but I thought I might succeed
with a young one like you. I could feel that I
was helping you — heavens ! what a close
escape ! "

But there was no time to discuss the matter.
We were nearing the earth.

"Throw your field-glass over," said Grimley,
as he returned to the iron ring and seized the
throttle-rope. The balloon rose slightly. We
were travelling with the speed of an express
train.

" There's a clearing of some sort ahead," he
cried. " I'm going to let her down " — and
with a long pull on the rope he opened the
throttle-valve at the top of the great gas bag.

We began to descend swiftly toward the rag-
ing billows of tree-tops, and the sounds were
like the voices of wild animals — deep, fierce,
and full of menace. The tempest carried us
along so fast that we seemed to be moving over
a heavy, frothing sea.

395

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

"We're going to strike and drag," shouted
Grimley, with a warning gesture. " Lie down
and cover your face or your eyes will be put
out."

I threw myself in the bottom of the car and
hid my face in my arms. The next moment
there was a terrific crash, as we plunged into the
forest, and the iron piping of the car bent and
twisted while it tore through the grinding, clash-
ing branches — ripping, splitting, smashing on-
ward in the gloom, with giant arms striking
blindly at us. For a moment the wind lifted us
clear of the trees, and hurled us down again
into the black tumult. Again we rebounded,
and again we sank. The balloon quivered like
a creature in pain. Each time the car went
deeper into the trees, and soon it thundered
against the solid trunks, and thrashed itself out
of shape. There was something awful in that
shapeless, shrieking, staggering riot — and yet
I remember distinctly that, as I was thrown sav-
agely about against the iron pipes, with the scent
of the wounded pines and maples in my nostrils,
I was thinking of the moment when I swung to
and fro on the door, with Grimley's wonderful

396

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

eyes upon me, and the hand slowly beckoning
me away from death. Looking up for an in-
stant I could see the small figure tangled in the
network around the ring, the throttle-rope
wound around his waist, his arms tugging
against the springs of the valve, and his face
thrust through a mass of leaves torn off by the
netting.

"Hold tight!" he yelled. "We'll be clear
in a moment."

Just then we were swept into an open field,
and the shattered car struck the ground
heavily. The wind dragged us, lifted us, and
dragged us again. We were on ploughed earth.
For a moment the balloon leaned over like a
tired monster, and the car stood still. Then
the gale caught it and sent us flying against
a loose stone fence, and we landed in another
furrowed field.

"Let us jump!"

" No ! no ! " exclaimed Grimley, holding me
back. "The first man who jumps will send
the other to death, for she will go up like a
flash."

" Jump together ! "

397

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

" Save the balloon," he pleaded. " It's worth
three thousand dollars, and it's all I have."

We threw ourselves face downward in the
car, and each time it settled itself on the
ground we dragged handfuls of earth into it.
Grimley managed to reach a heavy stone, and
pulled it through the bars. The added weight
steadied the car. We worked furiously, scrap-
ing and clutching at the damp furrows, until
there were bushels of ballast in the car. The
giant gas bag sank downward again. The
throttle-valve rope was hauled tight and tied
to the railing. Each moment the balloon grew
weaker.

" I guess we're safe now," said my compan-
ion, as he ran with the end of the anchor-
rope to a tree and made it fast. Then he
stood for a moment, with his hands on his
hips, and regarded the heaving balloon, start-
ing from side to side at each gust of the les-
sening storm. His shirt sleeves were torn
and there were drops of blood on his face.

" Now, my son," he said, " you know what
a man must expect when he leaves his place
in nature."

398

OAT THE GREAT HIGHWAY

His eyes sparkled, and he twirled his mus-
taches.

" I think I'll go back to teaching dancing or
mesmerism," he added, with a smile. "If
that don't do, why I'll be a tailor again. That
was simply hell back there. But you've got
a good story to write, haven't you, and I —
— well, I've got a nasty job of mending to do.
I tell you, when you try to fly too high, you
simply get your trousers torn."

Now came the work of emptying the balloon
of its gas. The wind had suddenly died out.
Millions of fireflies twinkled in the darkness.
The stars shone faintly in the blue patches be-
tween the drifting clouds. The fragrance of
the pines mingled with the smell of ploughed
earth. On all sides rose the black woods, the
tops still trembling. Thousands of frogs piped
shrilly in the summer air. Grimley hauled on
the netting until he brought the top of the
panting balloon to the ground, and holding
the shutters of the valve open, he bade me
pull down the net on the opposite side, to
force the gas out more quickly. As I moved
around the huge shape that lay throbbing and

399

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

swelling in the darkness, I could hear my com-
panion's voice directing me. Gradually the
sound grew feebler, and presently it ceased.
There was something in the sudden silence
that frightened me, and I ran to the other
side to find Grimley lying face downward in a
furrow, his arms under his body, and a stream
of gas pouring about him from the balloon.
He had swallowed the fumes and was uncon-
scious, perhaps dead.

Dragging him away from the fluttering
mouth of the balloon, I shook him, beat him,
and chafed his hands. To the day of his
death Grimley never knew what caused those
bruises on his body. Gradually consciousness
returned. He rose to his feet and fell. Again
he stood up, staggering and reeling like a
drunken man. I had fractured my right arm
during the race through the tree-tops, and the
pain became almost intolerable. I shouted for
help, and the woods echoed back my voice.

Where there was ploughed ground there
must be a house; but the twinkling myriads
of fireflies defeated my search for a light in
the distance. With my left arm around Grim-

400

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

ley's waist, we found a fence at the edge of
the field and followed it. After a while we
could see a steady yellow light. We waded
through a swamp straight toward it. The
chill of the water revived Grimley, and we
pushed forward vigorously. Finally we saw
a little white farmhouse, a yellow light shin-
ing through the windows. Then we reached
a rough road. We raised our voices. The
light was suddenly extinguished.

When we got to the door, the upper half
of which was glass, we knocked loudly, but
there was no response. We repeated the
knocking; then we shouted.

There was a stir in the house, and a match
was struck. Through the glass panes in the
door we could see an old man with a bushy
gray beard, a white gown reaching to his
knees, a pointed red night-cap on his head.
He lit a candle, took a shotgun from the wall,
and came to the door with a catlike tread
and vigilant eyes. He was a French Cana-
dian farmer, prepared to defend his home
against night intruders.

One glance at our bleeding faces and torn

401

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

clothes satisfied him, and he threw the door
open. We explained the situation, and he
made us a rough sleeping place on the floor.
Then he blew the light out, and went back to
his wife in the next room.

As he got into bed we could hear him ex-
plaining the matter in French.

" Two fools, heh ! One fool wanted to fly
like a bird, heh ! and the other fool went to
write about it, heh ! Thank God and our
Holy Lady I'm not a fool, and I'll make
them pay well for interfering with my field,
heh! Balloon, heh! Bah! Pish!"

A rasping snore followed.

"That's a devil of an ending," groaned
Grimley. " Some men don't know a mystery
when they see it."

402

CHAPTER XX

McKinley, the Forgiving

STANDING at the very heart of the great
exposition in Buffalo, where the commer-
cial and political communion of all the
Americas was celebrated in a city of fairy
loveliness, President McKinley was shaking
hands with the pouring, babbling crowd — the
supreme moment of his triumphant life. As he
stood there among his countrymen, crowned
with success, garlanded with praise, he seemed
the master-spirit of his continent, the archtype
of its modern victories. He had raised the
American flag beyond the seas, and had seen
his country enter upon the leadership of nations.
Only the day before he had announced a new
national policy, broad, high, and far-reaching.

A slender man, a mere youth, pushed eagerly
forward in the line that moved before the Presi-
dent. In his hand he carried a cheap revolver
covered with a white handkerchief. As he

403

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

reached the President he raised his masked
hand and fired two shots. A roar like the
sound of the sea in a storm ascended from the
swaying crowd. Then there was silence.

How frail beyond measurement are the plans
of nations ! The greatest of free nations had
chosen William McKinley to be its leader ; and
the meanest, the most obscure, of its teeming
millions — a wretched, blind failure in life, a
human derelict drifting miserably in a land
abounding in freedom and prosperity — had
power enough to turn a national triumph into
ashes — not in hatred, not in the service of
some great cause, but even as a wanton urchin
might set fire to some priceless library.

There were many among us standing in the
quiet street before the house where the twenty-
fifth President of the United States lay dying
who had written bitter things of him in the
stormy times of his public service, but none
who knew him save as a man who forgave his
enemies. And after all the years of pelting
political criticism and ridicule, the crack of an

404

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

assassin's pistol had called us together to wit-
ness the most beautiful death-bed in history.
For a week we paced the pavement about that
hushed place of pain, watching the guardian
bayonets of the sentries and listening to the
telegraph instruments in the huddled white
tents ticking out the story to the ends of the
earth or bringing messages from kings and
emperors; and when the end came, it was like
a strain of Christian music, to be heard for all
time. Our little daily pen-pricks were lost in
the grandeur of that matchless death — forgot-
ten and forgiven.

Hardly had the bullets pierced his body,
when the President leaned forward and looked
into the eyes of the assassin. It was a look
of astonishment and reproach. Then, remem-
bering the dignity befitting the President of
the United States in the presence of a great
audience, he walked steadily to a chair and
sat down. The murderer writhed on the floor
beneath his infuriate captors. The President
looked at him again.

" Did — did he shoot me?" he asked.

"Yes."

405

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

" Don't hurt him." His voice was full of
pity.

The passionate multitude drew back in awe.

" My wife," he faltered. " Be careful how
you tell her — oh, be careful."

When the dying President was carried into
the little hospital of the Pan-American Expo-
sition, he turned to Mr. Cortelyou, his secre-
tary, and said : —

" It must have been some poor misguided
fellow."

He seemed to be filled with amazement by
the thought that any man in free America
could have found a motive for seeking his
death. His every word expressed this bewil-
derment. And when the surgeons pressed
around him in that first terrible hour he
turned his thoughts heavenward and bore him-
self like a Christian hero.

" Mr. President," said Dr. Mann, the operat-
ing surgeon, "we intend to cut in at once.
We lost one President by delay, and we do
not intend to lose you."

" I am in your hands," murmured the Presi-
dent.

406

William Me Kin ley

OAT THE GREAT HIGHWAY

He was prepared for the ordeal and lifted
upon the operating table. The surgeons were
ready to administer ether. He opened his
eyes and saw that he was about to enter a
sleep from which he might never awaken.
Then the lids closed flutteringly. The white
face was suddenly lit by a tender smile. All
the angel there was in him came to his face.
The wan lips stirred, and the surgeons lis-
tened.

"Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done."

His voice was soft and clear. Tears rolled
down the faces of the listeners. The Presi-
dent raised his chest and sighed. His lips
moved again.

"Thy will be done."

Dr. Mann stood with the keen knife in his
hand — dread symbol of human science. There
was a lump in his throat.

" For Thine is the kingdom and the power
and the glory."

The eyelids fluttered gently, beads of cold
moisture stood on the bloodless brow. There
was silence. So he entered the darkness ;
and if there is a loftier scene in the history

407

THE GREAT HIGH WAT

of Christian statesmen and rulers, there is no
record of it.

That was the beginning of eight days of
national agony. The President was carried to
a room in the house of his host, John G. Mil-
burn, and all human power was called upon to
save him. As he lay there, teaching the
world how a good man can die, thoughts of
his great responsibilities as a leader pressed
upon him.

It is no exaggeration to say that the speech
delivered by the President on the day before
he was struck down was the greatest act of
statesmanship of his life. His plea for a
policy of commercial reciprocity was an appeal
for peace with the world, an effort to avert a
tariff war by united Europe against the United
States. He had recognized the signs of ap-
proaching conflict and he had felt the stub-
born opposition of men in his own party to
his policy of conciliation. There was but one
thing to do — appeal to the people. All
through his summer rest from official routine
in Ohio he had worked out his last great utter-
ance. It was to be at once a message of

408

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

warning to America and a signal of peace to
Europe.

"God and man have linked the nations to-
gether," he said to the mighty crowd stretched
out before him. " No nation can longer be
indifferent to any other. And as we are
brought more and more in touch with each
other, the less occasion is there for misunder-
standings, and the stronger the disposition,
when we have differences, to adjust them in
the court of arbitration, which is the noblest
forum for the settlement of international dis-
putes. . . . The period of exclusiveness is
past. The expansion of our trade and com-
merce is the pressing problem. Commercial
wars are unprofitable. A policy of good will
and friendly trade relations will prevent repri-
sals. Reciprocity treaties are in harmony with
the spirit of the times; measures of retaliation
are not. . . . Our earnest prayer is that God
will graciously vouchsafe prosperity, happiness,
and peace to all our neighbors, and like bless-
ings to all the peoples and Powers of earth."

These were the President's last words as a
statesman and leader. How had the world

409

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

received them ? Even in his dying hours he
longed to hear the answer. When the first
agony of his wounds was over, he sent for his
faithful secretary. Mr. Cortelyou entered the
room and stood beside the stricken chief.

"It's mighty lonesome in here," said the
President.

" I know it is."

The President's eyes brightened, and the
old familiar wrinkles appeared in his face as
he turned eagerly to his assistant.

"How did they like my speech ? " he asked.

" It is regarded as one of the greatest you
have ever made, and has attracted more at-
tention than anything you have said for
years."

The President smiled and looked earnestly
into Mr. Cortelyou's eyes.

" How did they like it abroad ? "

" It has attracted considerable attention
abroad, and everywhere the comment is favor-
able."

" Isn't that good ? " And he spoke no more
of things political, having heard the echo of his
cry for peace.

410

OAT THE GREAT HIGHWAY

In the afternoon of his last day on earth the
President began to realize that his life was
slipping away and that the efforts of science
could not save him. He asked Dr. Rixey to
bring the surgeons in. One by one the sur-
geons entered and approached the bedside.
When they were gathered about him the Presi-
dent opened his eyes and said : —

" It is useless, gentlemen ; I think we ought
to have prayer."

The dying man crossed his hands on his
breast and half-closed his eyes. There was
a beautiful smile on his countenance. The
surgeons bowed their heads. Tears streamed
from the eyes of the white-clad nurses on either
side of the bed. The yellow radiance of the
sun shone softly in the room.

"Our Father, which art in Heaven," said
the President, in a clear, steady voice.

The lips of the surgeons moved.

"Hallowed be thy name. Thy Kingdom
come. Thy will be done — "

The sobbing of a nurse disturbed the still
air. The President opened his eyes and closed
them again.

411

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

"Thy will be done in earth as it is in
Heaven."

A long sigh. The sands of life were running
swiftly. The sunlight died out and raindrops
dashed against the windows.

" Give us this day our daily bread ; and
forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors ;
and lead us not into temptation, but deliver
us from evil."

Another silence. The surgeons looked at
the dying face and the trembling lips.

" For Thine is the kingdom, the power, and
the glory, forever. Amen."

" Amen," whispered the surgeons.

Outside, an army of newspaper writers moved
silently about the tents of the telegraph opera-
tors, and the bayonets of the sentries pacing
slowly on all sides glittered in the afternoon
light. Beyond the clear spaces of roped-off
streets were the awed crowds. Even the police-
men spoke in hushed voices. As the surgeons
or Cabinet officers or other friends of the
dying President appeared, they were engulfed
by the eager seekers for news. Vice-President
Roosevelt — he who was soon to wear the awful

412

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

mantle of authority — was summoned from his
distant hunting camp in the mountains. Ten-
der words of sympathy from the rulers of all
nations came flashing over the wires.

Darkness descended on the scene. The
President was conscious again. He asked
for his wife. Presently she came to him, lean-
ing feebly on the arm of Mr. Cortelyou. As
she reached the side of her husband and lover,
— who had read to her every day at twilight
for years from the Bible, — she sank into a
chair, and leaning her frail form over the white
counterpane, she took his hands in hers and
kissed them. There was a group of friends in
the room, and they drew away from the sacred
spectacle. The light of the two candles behind
the screen was reflected faintly on the white
ceiling and tinted walls. It sparkled on the
wedding ring.

The President's eyes were closed. His breath
came slowly. As he felt the touch of his wife's
lips, he smiled. It was to be their last meeting.

"Good-by! Good-by, all!"

Mrs. McKinley gazed into the white face of
the martyr, and struggled for strength to bear it.

413

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

" It is God's way ; His will, not ours, be
done."

The President turned his face slightly toward
his wife. A look of ineffable love shone in the
haggard features. She held his hands as a
child clings to its mother. The ticking of the
clock in the next room could be heard. Once
more the President spoke.

"Nearer my God — to — Thee — "

His soul was on his lips. His face was
radiant.

" E'en tho' it be a cross — "

There was a moment of utter silence.

"That has been my inextinguishable
prayer."

His voice was almost inaudible.

"It is — God's — way."

It was the last thought and the last word of
the gentle President.

As the night wore on, the signs of life grew
fainter. One by one the members of the Cabi-
net, the relatives, and the intimate friends of
the dying statesman were brought into the
room by Mr. Cortelyou. One by one they
stood at the bedside and took farewell of the

414

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

still form, — grave senators, old schoolmates,
young men who had followed him in the fierce
struggles of politics, statesmen who had sat with
him in council, men and women of his blood.
They moved like shadows. He neither saw
them nor heard them. Midnight came, and
yet he gave no sign.

Hope brooded in the waiting crowds. It
was known that Dr. Janeway, the famous
specialist, was on his way from New York.
Who could tell but that the skill and knowl-
edge of the great physician might turn back
the force of death, and give the President to
his people again ? Oh, the agony of that hour !
Men walked in the streets as softly as though
they were in the sickroom. •

Suddenly the stillness was broken by a dis-
tant sound of a galloping horse's feet. Nearer
and nearer it came through the darkness. The
ropes stretched across the street were dropped,
and the voiceless multitude parted as an open
carriage drawn by a foam-covered, smoking
steed swept madly up to the house of sor-
row. A man leaped from the carriage and
ran to the house at the top of his speed. It

415

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

was Dr. Janeway. The hundreds of newspaper
correspondents swarmed eagerly against the
ropes, and waited for a word of hope. So
great was the stillness that the noise of the
telegraph instruments in the tents tortured the
nerves.

Alas ! no. The President was beyond the
help of human hands. Not all the doctors in
all the schools could call him back from the
shadows.

At a quarter after two o'clock in the morn-
ing Dr. Rixey sat at the beside holding the
President's wrist in one hand and an open
watch in the other. Tick ! tick ! tick ! The
breath stirred the white nostrils. Tick! tick!
tick ! The smiling face was rigid. Dr. Rixey
laid the President's hand down gently and
closed his watch.

"The President is dead," he said.

Within thirty seconds the telegraph wires
were carrying the news to a thousand centres
of civilization ; and the tired newspaper men
went to their beds for rest before beginning the
history of a new President ; for the hand of
the assassin might slay a beloved President, but

416

ON THE GREAT HIGH WAT

it was powerless to interrupt the story of the.
nation.

" In God's own might
We gird us for the coming fight,
And, strong in Him, whose cause is ours
In conflict with unholy powers,
We grasp the weapons He has given, —
The Light, the Truth, and Love of Heaven."

Whatever else history may say of William
McKinley, those who knew him will bear wit-
ness to the forgiveness that shone through his
character. It was the crown of his life, the vir-
tue that distinguished him among American
statesmen. He died without an enemy, forgiv-
ing the hand that shed his blood.

" My one ambition is to be known as the
President of the whole people," he said to me
when I last saw him in the White House. " I
have no other desire than to win that name.
After all, no American can harm his country
without harming himself. This government
was created by the people for themselves, and,
night or day, that thought is always in my

417

ON THE GREAT HIGHWAY

mind. We are all together in this great politi-
cal experiment. Some hard things have been
written and said of me, but that sort of thing
is a necessary incident of popular government.
It must always be so. My plan is to forget
the evil and remember only the good. I never
despair of converting an opponent into a sup-
porter. The bitterest critic I have can come to
see me, and he will find a warm hand to greet
him. It is the only way for an American to
live."

So he lived and so he died. Men of all
parties will remember him as McKinley, the
Forgiving.

" Let us ever remember," he said in his last
speech, " that our interest is in concord, not
conflict; and that our real eminence rests in
the victories of peace, not those of war."

418

Selections from

LOTHROP PUBLISHING COMPANY'S

List of Books

D'ri and I

By
IRVING

BACHELLER,
author of
"EBEN
HOLDEN."
Bound in
red silk cloth,
illustrated
cover,
gilt top,
rough edges.
Eight

drawings by
P. C. Yohn.
Size, 5 x 7%.
Price, $1.50

A Tale of
Daring Deeds
in the

Second War
with the
British.
Being the
Memoirs of
Colonel
Ramon Bell,
U.S.A. And
a Romance of
Sturdy
Americans
and Dainty
French
Demoiselles.

PHILADELPHIA PRESS:

" An admirable story, superior in literary workmanship and imagination
to' Eben Holden.'"

NEW YORK WORLD:

" Pretty as are the heroines, gallant as Captain Bell proves himself, the
reader comes back with even keener zest to the imperturbable D'ri. He is
a type of the American — grit, grim humor, rough courtesy, and all. It is a
great achievement, upon which Mr. Bacheller is to be heartily congratulated,
to have added to the list of memorable figures in American fiction, two such
characters as D'ri and Eben Holden."

BOSTON BEACON:

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ises to rival ' Eben Holden ' in popularity."

ST. Louis GLOBE-DEMOCRAT:

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another story by its author, Irving Bacheller, who in ' D'ri and I ' has
created quite as interesting a character as the sage of the North land who
was the hero of the former story."

Lothrop Publishing Company - - Boston

Eben Holden

A Tale of the North Country

By IRVING BACHELLER. Bound in red silk cloth,

decorative cover, gilt top, rough edges* Size, 5 x 7#.

Price, $J.50

*T*HE most popular book in America.
Within eight months after publication
it had reached its two hundred and fiftieth
thousand. The most American of recent
novels, it has indeed been hailed as the
long looked for " American novel."

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there simply and frankly. It is 'as pure
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a forest-scented, fresh-aired, bracing, and
wholly American story of country and
town life."

Lothrop Publishing Company - - Boston

J. Devlin --Boss

A Romance of American Politics

By FRANCIS CHURCHILL WILLIAMS. J2mo, $1.50

•* | 'HIS is a story of the typical figure in the shaping of
* American life. "Jimmy," shrewd, strong, re-
sourceful, clean-hearted, is vital ; and the double love story
which is woven about him gives an absolutely true and
near view of the American boss. The revelations of politi-
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ting of the most sensational Presidential Convention which
this country has seen — are, as sketched in this romance,
of intense interest ; the scenes and characters in them are
almost photographic. But above all of these stands Jimmy
himself, unscrupulous as a politician, honorable as a man
— Jimmy, the playmate, the counselor, and the. lover
of the winsome, clear-eyed Kate, the stanch friend of
herself and of her son — Jimmy, with a straight word
always for those who are true to him, a helping hand
for all who need it, and a philosophy which is irresistible.

Lothrop Publishing Company - - Boston

When the Land was Young

Being the True Romance of Mistress Antoinette
Huguenin and Captain Jack Middleton

^HE heroine,
A Antoinette
Huguenin, a
beauty of King
Louis' Court, is
one of the most
attractive fig-
ures in ro-
mance; while
Lumulgee, the
great war chief
of the Choc-
taws, and Sir
Henry Morgan,
the Buccaneer
Knight and
terror of the
Spanish Main,
divide the hon-
ors with hero
and heroine.
The time was
full of border

wars between the Spaniards of Florida and the English colonists,
and against this historical background Miss McLaws has thrown a
story that is absorbing, dramatic, and brilliant.

LAFAYETTE

McLAWS.

Bound in

green cloth,

illustrated

cover,

gilt top,

rough edges.

Six drawings

Will Crawford

Size, 5x7%.

Price, $1.50

NEW YORK WORLD:

" Lovely Mistress Antoinette Huguenin ! What a girl she is ! "

NEW YORK JOURNAL:

" A story of thrill and adventure."

SAVANNAH NEWS:

" Among the entertaining romances based upon the colonial days of
American history this novel will take rank as one of the most notable — a
dramatic and brilliant story."

ST. Louis GLOBE-DEMOCRAT:

" If one is anxious for a thrill, he has only to read a few pages of ' When
the Land was Young ' to experience the desired sensation. . . . There is
action of the most virile type throughout the romance. ... It is vividly
told, and presents a realistic picture of the days " when the land was young."

Lothrop Publishing Company - - Boston

The Potter and the Clay

A Romance of To-day

By MAUD HO WARD PETERSON. Bound in blue cloth,
decorative cover, rough edges, gilt top. Four drawings by
Charlotte Harding. Size, 5x7^. Price $1.50

ONE of the strongest and most forceful of re-
cent novels, now attracting marked attention,
and already one of the most successful books of
the present year. The characters are unique,
the plot is puzzling, and the action is remarkably
vivid. Readers and critics alike pronounce it a
romance of rare strength and beauty. The scenes
are laid in America, Scotland, and India ; and one
of the most thrilling and pathetic chapters in re-
cent fiction is found in Trevelyan's heroic self-
sacrifice during the heart-rending epidemic of
cholera in the latter country. The story through-
out is one of great strength.

Margaret E. Sangster: "From the opening
chapter, which tugs at the heart, to the close,
when we read through tears, the charm of the
book never flags. It is not for one season, but
of abiding human interest."

Minot J. Savage : " I predict for the book a very

large sale, and for the authoress brilliant work

in the future."
Boston Journal: " One of the most remarkable books

of the year. Brilliant, but better than that,

tender."

Lothrop Publishing Company J* Boston

A Carolina Cavalier

A Romance of the Carolinas

By GEORGE GARY EGGLESTON

Bound in red silk cloth, illustrated cover, gilt top, rough edges.
Six drawings by C D. Williams. Size, 5x7M. Price $1.50

A strong, delightful romance of Revolu-
•**• tionary days, most characteristic of its
vigorous author, George Gary Eggleston.
The story is founded on absolute happenings
and certain old papers of the historic Rut-
ledges of Carolina. As a love story, it is
sweet and true ; and as a patriotic novel it is
grand and inspiring. The historic setting,
and the fact that it is distinctively and enthu-
siastically American, have combined to win
instant success for the book.

Louisville Courier Journal: "A fine story of ad-
venture, teeming with life and aglow
with color."

Cleveland World: " There is action, plot, and
fire. Love and valor and loyalty play a
part that enhances one's respect for
human nature."

Baltimore Sun : " The story is full of move-
ment. It is replete with adventure. It is
saturated with love.

Lothrop Publishing Company j* Boston

A Princess of the Hills

A Story of Italy

By MRS. BURTON HARRISON. Bound in Green
Cloth, Decorative Cover, Gilt Top, Rough Edges. Four
Drawings by ORSON LOWELL. Size, 7^x5. $1.50.

TITTRS. BURTON HARRISON is a charming story-
«* teller. Unlike her other novels, "A Princess
of the Hills " is not a romance of New York society,
nor of Colonial times, but is a story of Italian life.
An American tourist retreats from a broken engage-
ment at Venice to that section of the North Italian
Alps known as the Dolomites. Here he encounters
a daughter of the soil, the last of a noble race, but
now a humble peasant girl, — a real princess of the
hills. The complications of the situation ; the aroused
interest of the American ; the rival lovers, English,
American, and Italian ; the fierceness of the feud
this love engenders ; the struggle for possession and
its unexpected outcome and denouement, — are told
with masterly skill and with an interest that remains
unflagging to the end.

Lothrop Publishing Company - - Boston

The Kidnapped
Millionaires

A Story of Wall Street and Mexico

By FREDERICK U. ADAMS. J2mo, cloth, $1.50

/^\NE of the most timely and startling stories
of the day. A plan to form a great
Newspaper Trust, evolved in the brain of an
enterprising special correspondent, leads to the
kidnapping of certain leading Metropolitan mil-
lionaires and marooning them luxuriously on
a Mexican headland ; the results — the panic
in Wall Street, the search for the kidnapped
millionaires, their discovery and rescue are the
chief motives of the story, which has to do also
with trusts, syndicates, newspaper methods, and
all the great monetary problems and financial
methods of the day. The story is full of adven-
ture, full of humor, and full of action and sur-
prises, while the romance that develops in its
progress is altogether charming and delightful.

Lothrop Publishing Company - - Boston

University of Toronto
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